Undiscovered Country
by WriteToLive
Summary: Someone finds out about Sam and Gene's relationship. Things go downhill from there. Sam/Gene, slash. Comments appreciated, even if you don't like it - con crit always welcome!
1. Chapter I

It's after midnight, and raining. Raining so hard the water runs in rivulets down his face, along the crease between nose and cheek, down over his mouth and off his chin. It drips off the hair cut too short last Thursday. He can feel it seeping through to the roots, making curls at his nape before saturating his collar and spreading outwards, downwards, like a pool of blood between his shoulder blades.

'Gene.'

Tyler's voice is a long way away, and probably would be even if the wind weren't whistling along the alley, driving water sideways before it. He ignores it, and Sam, and curls into himself, shoulders hunched as he rests on his heels, the wall cold against his back.

'Gene, are you OK?'

He sucks in a breath, and lets it out slowly, mindful of the throbbing at his temple. He needs to calm down. The pressure in his head can't be good, and his chest feels tight like it hasn't since he was a kid, and lived on his nerves. It's distracting enough that he can't feel the damage he's done to his hand, though it's easy enough to see. Anyone can see, right through him, all the way down to the bone. Tyler's about to suggest he gets it sewn up, but that won't stop it scarring.

'Gene?'

'I'm fine.'

Sam nods once, and puts his hands behind his back with the air of someone who has no intention of moving. It's probably out of concern, but it's still a pain in the arse. Gene drops his head back to rest on the brick turned black from rain, and draws another breath through his nose. It's cold enough to sting, but he feels nothing. The others hover around the mouth of the alley, all except Cartwright, who's probably the only one here doing their job. And that's his fault, but it doesn't matter. He steels himself and stands up, using the wall to help.

'You'd better do it.'

'It can wait. You need to get to hospital.'

'After. Go on. No need for you to pick up a reprimand.'

Sam nods again, and brings his hands forward. Mercifully, they're empty, though he wouldn't have complained if they weren't.

'Gene Stephen Hunt, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Gary-John Lancett. You have the right to remain silent…'

Somewhere along the line, Tyler learnt how it goes.

###

_One month earlier._

_Sunday._

Sundays used to be about sleeping 'til noon. It wasn't so much about being lazy, or catching up on some kip, though they'd be valid reasons on their own. It was just that Saturdays meant the match, and the resultant celebration or drowning of sorrows – which equalled pub until kicking-out time, and then a club of some description. Gene's never really been a fan of nightclubs because the music's so bad, but if you want to keep drinking and pick up something shaggable, they're the places to go. On the nights he couldn't be bothered, there was always a poker game somewhere. Or a strip club, which he didn't do often because tipping gets expensive when the girls insist on sorting you out for free. He never felt guilty enough to insist on paying, but would leave her a few bob anyway. He's not a complete arsehole.

He used to enjoy it. Sunday hangover, followed by Sunday lunch with the missus – usually at his mam's house – and then doze the afternoon away in front of the telly with a beer to hand. Pub in the evening for a couple of social ones, dinner with the wife, more telly while she got his suit pressed for the morning. And then the easy, uncomplicated, well-practiced shag of the once-a-week married couple who'd been at it for more years than are memorable. And then that's it. Weekend done, back to the grind.

That was then. Now, at eight in morning, with a leg over his shoulder and straining, aching, buried balls-deep in Sam sodding Tyler, he's pretty sure this is better. Or would be, if the bloke would have the decency to come, so it can be his turn.

'I swear to God Samantha, if you don't toss it off I'm gonna break it in two.'

He's aware it sounds weak, because there's sweat running down the corded muscles in his neck, and he can't stop the snap of his hips. Every heaved breath is accompanied by a groan from so deep in his chest, it aches to rasp out. And Sam just looks at him, hands fisted defiantly in the sheets, a smirk on his lips despite the writhing, and the arching, and the steady leak of moisture from the tip of his rigid cock. It's transfixing, rubbing on his belly every time Gene thrusts in, and he can't drag his eyes away. Willing it to break, and wanting nothing more than to watch it forever. He'd have given in and grabbed it ages ago, but for the need to hold on to the bed, and Sam, to keep the rhythm up. He's pretty sure the entire universe rests on him not stopping this rhythm.

'Can't. You look too fucking sexy.'

'Shut it. And _touch_ it, for Chris'sakes. Looks painful.'

'Feels better. Than …anything.'

'_Please_, Sam.'

'Nope.'

This is Sunday now. Sam doesn't have any respect for the sanctity of the hangover. He doesn't care about what time Gene turned up last night, or how much he drank. He'll wake him up at some ungodly hour with his mouth wrapped firmly around his dick, forcing him to look down and watch the way his cheeks hollow as he sucks. As soon as he sees that, he's gone. There's no headache in the world that'd stop him getting inside the bloke after that. And Tyler knows it, damn him.

Later, when the sly little bastard brings the tea and bacon sarnie up, and Gene's kissed him into next week in gratitude, the day tends to get some focus. Today's no different. He puts his empty plate down, lights a fag, and watches Sam twist over to put his mug down on the side. And hisses suddenly, stretches out to run his fingers over the red-raw skin of his shoulder blades.

'Shit. Is that from last night?'

Sam rolls back with a grin on his face, and props himself up on an elbow. 'Yeah. Doesn't matter. It was worth it.'

It was too. What's skin, when there's a really good shag to be had? Still. He doesn't like to be the one that causes Sam pain. 'You should've said if it was hurting. I thought the leather would take most of it.'

'It did. You're going to have to buy me a new jacket soon.'

'Bollocks.'

Sam rolls his eyes, and flops back to the sheets. It's chilly in Gene's bedroom, but he makes no effort to cover himself over. He just scratches at his stomach, pushing the waistband of his boxers down an inch or so as he does. Gene's gaze follows, and mentally yanks them down the rest of the way.

'It's been a long time since you've done me against a wall.'

'That's because you never come out on Saturday night anymore.'

'I might, if you and Ray weren't so disgusting when you're bladdered.'

Gene sniffs, and pouts. 'It's not news to you what me and him are like.'

'Exactly. And I don't have to watch it.'

He concedes the point silently, and smokes, and watches the ceiling. Sam yawns, and stretches. 'I'm going for a run, I think. Wake myself up.'

'For God's sake. Just go back to sleep. It's too early.'

'Can't. I'm awake now. Anyway, I want to look over the Lancett file, and make sure it's right.'

Gene lifts an eyebrow. 'You've spent the last month making sure it's right. And it's hardly a major case. It's just a domestic.'

'I'm going to pretend you didn't say that.'

He sighs, and pulls a long drag from his cigarette. They've had that argument a few times, yeah. 'Look, I'm not denying the bloke's a scumbag-'

'Good. I'm glad you're not denying that.'

Sam's voice is dangerously deadpan, but Gene didn't get anywhere in life by backing off. 'And I'll be happier to bang him up than anyone. I'm just saying, you've done the work already. No need to spend Sunday on it too.'

'I'm not asking _you_ to do it. I just said I was going to.'

'Why's it so important to you?'

'Why _isn't_ it to you?'

Gene looks over again. Sam holds his gaze, and does actually look curious. As if he was expecting something worse, something more, a reaction Gene wasn't aware he was supposed to give. 'What?'

'I'm just surprised, that's all. I thought…'

Gene waits, but apparently he's supposed to guess. Well, he's not going to, not least because he knows exactly what Sam's getting it, and wishes he weren't. Also because he has a hangover the bacon hasn't fixed yet, and he's sleepy from having to work so hard for an orgasm.

'…never mind.'

It's not often Tyler backs off, but happy soddin' days when he does. Gene nods, drops his fag butt in the dregs of his tea, and puts it down firmly. 'Go on then, if you're going. I'm going back to sleep.'

'Of course you are.' Sam grins, has the temerity to kiss him on the forehead, and slips out of bed before retaliation can happen. 'I'll wake you up in time to-'

'-vegetables, yes, I bloody know. Go away.'

His eyes are shut, but he can feel Sam's amusement through the rustling of clothes as he finds his shorts and singlet for running. 'You'll be ready for an upgrade soon, I reckon. Hoovering, maybe. Just as soon as you stop leaving the eyes in the spuds.'

'Well, there's an incentive for me to try harder.'

'Maybe dusting. There's no ornaments for you to break.'

'If you don't sod off in the next five bloody seconds-'

The door opens, the sound not quite hiding the chuckle. 'See you later.'

'Mmm.'

He lets himself smile when he hears the stairs creaking. Sunday mornings. Brilliant.

###

He still goes to the pub on his own in the evening. It would be a bit hard to explain away if he and his D.I. were always seen together at weekends, especially when it's fairly well known how they clash at work. Since Barbara moved away, he's become aware of these things – more aware than Sam even, which is strange because the bloke's normally so clued up on details. There's also the way Sam uses at least two hours on Sunday evenings to get things straight for work the next day, which is very efficient, and very annoying. He won't be talked out of it, and only distracted for an hour or two if sex is offered. Gene's never known anyone who can go at it like Sam, then get up and wash it away, and turn to something else before the stain on the bedsheet 's halfway dry.

'Evenin', Gene.'

'Michael. Usual, ta.'

The King's Head is no Railway Arms, but it's just down the road and has the advantage of not being full of coppers. Which is also its disadvantage, but you can't have everything.

'There you are. Fifteen pence. Good weekend?'

'Aye, can't complain.' He hands the money over, and lights up a fag. He limits himself to two on a Sunday night, but there's always whiskey at home. 'Especially as your boys got stuffed yesterday.'

Michael pulls a face. 'Just resting the big guns until we go to Maine Road next week. My bet's three-nil.'

'You're dreaming, pal.'

'We'll see.'

'Yeah, we will.'

He smiles at Michael's expression, but frowns as he watches the bloke's eyes twitch towards the door. He's about to turn, when Michael says, softly, 'The fella that just came in. He was in earlier, asking after you.'

'Yeah?' Gene doesn't turn, but puts his pint down. 'You know him?'

'No. Sorry mate, he's never been in here on my shift.'

'Don't worry about it.'

He'd add more, but then there's a presence at his elbow. He glances over casually, like he hasn't just been given a heads-up. The guy standing there is small, wiry, with a dark head of curls that manage to stand up from his scalp. Hair that wouldn't be out of place on a black fella, Gene thinks, but he's thought that every time he's seen this bloke before. 'Ricky Lancett. Bit far from your neck of the woods, aren't you?'

Ricky shrugs, and jerks his head towards a table in the corner. Gene frowns again, and shakes his head. 'Don't think so. What do you want? I'm not on the clock, and I prefer it when the brothers of scum I've got in me cells stay away on weekends.'

'You don' want me talkin' out here. Not where anyone might be listenin'.'

Ricky's accent is thick, Blackburn, and sandpapered to a harsh rasp by years in a pit. Gene knows he's only about thirty, but that's still fifteen years working in the filth underground. Best place for him, as far as he's concerned. 'Like that is it? Think you can come down my local and threaten me?'

'Want me to throw him out, Gene?' Michael's not as big as he is, but still twice the size of Ricky.

'Nah. As long as you don't object if I do it myself.'

'Oh, be my guest.'

Ricky glances between them, and shrugs again. 'I won't be back anyway. But I want to talk to you,' he points a finger at Gene's chest, black under the nail, 'and if I have to shout it to the whole lounge, it don' matter to me.'

Gene exchanges a glance with the landlord, then sighs. 'Oh, come on then. Make it quick. The missus'll burn my tea.'

Ricky snorts, and raises his eyebrows. Gene glares back. It takes a moment before the smaller bloke turns and slopes off to a table; Gene hesitates, then follows. There's something in that snort he doesn't like, and much as he'd hate to admit it, a hint of trepidation creeps into his gut. Ricky Lancett was there the night his brother was arrested for beating up his wife the first time, and again two days ago when they caught him red-handed with a knife in his hand, about to go for her again. He'd been standing by, letting it happen. He'd said he only just got there himself, and didn't fancy taking on his brother when there was a blade involved. In Gene's book, that makes him as guilty as Gary-John, because what sort of bloke stands by and watches when a woman's about to be cut up? He'd have tried to prove complicity if it were possible, but Ricky's never had much to say for himself, and with no prior convictions, it'd be a thankless job.

He keeps all of it off his face, and just sits down firmly, DCI air in full force. 'Let's have it, then.'

Ricky lights a bent roll-up. The flame from the lighter takes half the paper away, leaving flecks of red tobacco to fall to the carpet. 'You'll want to let my brother go.'

Gene raises his eyebrows. 'Is that right? Anyone else? Moors Murderers, while we're at it?'

'Funny.' He extends a hand, and flicks ash towards the ashtray. It misses, but he doesn't seem bothered. 'He wasn't going to kill her.'

'Oh yeah, it looked like he was bringing her roses. She's still in bloody hospital.'

'Yeah, but-' and now Ricky looks uncomfortable, '-he was only tryin' to frighten her.'

'I'd say he succeeded, what with her having a broken rib and a cracked wrist, and a knife shoved under her nose.' Gene lets out an exasperated breath, and leans in. 'What do you _want_? I'm not letting him go.'

'I'm looking after his kids. She's not fit to have 'em. If you don't let him go, they'll have no one.'

Gene pulls up. 'He's got kids?'

'Two. Shouldn't you know that?'

'It's not my case. My D.I.'s handling it – and before you think you can appeal to him, forget it. Christ. Wife-beaters procreating. Shouldn't be allowed.'

Ricky shrugs again. It seems to be a gesture he uses in lieu of words whenever possible. 'Whatever. Point is, if you don't let him out, you'll regret it.'

'Oh, really? I don't think I'll lose sleep, somehow.'

'You will.'

He doesn't add more, even though Gene's waiting for it. Eventually he huffs a breath, and sits straight. 'You know, if that's a threat, it's pathetic. I think you're supposed to give me some reason to listen to you? Not that I'm an expert, like. But as intimidators go, you're rubbish.'

It doesn't seem to matter what he says, Ricky makes no sign of rising to it. 'Maybe.' He stands up, and moves around the table. 'You let him go by the end of tomorrow, or you'll be sorry.'

'You're not serious. That's it?'

'Mmm.' The man takes a step away, and his mouth twists into something ugly. 'Say hello to your _missus_ for me.'

He drops an envelope on the table, and walks away. Time seems to slow. Gene has frozen before it hits the surface, his blood turned to ice as soon as the man spoke. He doesn't hear the door bang, or feel the cool evening breeze cut through the fug; doesn't hear Michael calling over to see if everything's OK. He has to force his fingers to unclench from the fist they've made, and pick up the envelope that will contain exactly what he's expecting it to, he's sure.

The photograph is from last night. They must have been watching as soon as Gary-John got pinched. It shows him, and Sam, and the alleyway they'd stumbled into. It was dark, but the streetlight highlights enough – the colour of his coat glowing in the orange light, the sepia tinge to Sam's face, contorted in ecstasy. The legs around his own waist – he can still feel the clench of them – the absolute, undeniable truth of what they were doing.

'Gene. You all right?'

He nods dumbly, not looking around. His head feels heavy on his neck, and unbalanced, as though the world has tilted and he can't find north. He doesn't trust his legs to hold him steady, so he sits, and breathes, deep as he can manage, and flicks his lighter open with a shaking hand. For a moment, he just holds it there, trying to control the fear – the instant, debilitating panic – that's trying to claw its way up his throat. Sam's face, turned up to the light. His mouth on Sam's neck, the gloved hand curled under his thigh. The glint of light off shining, exposed skin.

He moves his hand, and watches himself go up in flames. It only takes a second.


	2. Chapter II

II

Sam's bag is by the door when he gets home. For the first time in a year, he's glad to see it. He hangs his coat up slowly, aware of the sickness roiling in his gut, a silent current that distracts from the normality of another Sunday evening – TV on in the front room, the clanking of cutlery from the kitchen as Sam does the dishes. There's a cold sweat on the back of Gene's neck, and the walk home has already receded into something that must have happened, but is something he has no recollection of.

'Sam?'

He has to act normal, at least until he's worked out what to do. But his voice is a croak, and he can't muster enough bravado to pull it together. He should have stayed away until he could think straight, but the instinct was to come home and regroup – stupid, he thinks. Stupid, stupid, _stupid._

'You're back early.' Sam leans back from the sink to look down the hallway. Gene turns, and forces a smile. 'Shit. What's wrong?'

'Nothing.' Also a stupid thing to say. He waves a hand, and swallows hard. 'Feel a bit dodgy. You sure that beef was cooked right?'

Sam's face pulls into a familiar expression of _oh, please_, but it's mixed with concern. Gene leans against the wall, and watches him dry his hands on a tea towel, toss it down and walk towards him. It's such a small thing, but it seems to happen at a distance, as though Sam's a mile away instead of ten feet. He counts three steps, and it hits him that telling him the truth is an option. It could be. Then he could explain how they're teetering on the brink of ruin; how one misstep will bring everything down 'round their ears. How he doesn't understand why one little case could have turned into _this_. If something's going to ruin his life, it could have the decency to be a murder, or a kidnapping, or the start of nuclear war. Not a scumbag who beat up his wife.

But then Sam's hands are on him, one on his shoulder, the other checking his forehead. He closes his eyes, and fights another wave of panic.

'You're clammy. Are you going to puke?'

'Might.'

Sam nods efficiently, and ushers him upright. And Gene knows he can't tell him. He knows what he'll say. He'll never agree to free a criminal to protect themselves, because that's not who he is. It's Stephen Warren all over again.

'Go and sit down. I'll get a glass of water.'

It would be so easy to go into work tomorrow, unlock the cell and say they're dropping all charges. But Sam's fought this case from the beginning, telling them over and over that it _is_ important to bang up scum that beat up their wives; that it _does_ matter. He let him, because he's right. He knows more than most how right he is. And Sam would never let it rest if he just let the bastard go.

He sits heavily, and stares at the television. _The Hanged Man_, re-run from last night. Sam must be watching it because he decided to come out on the piss for once. Gene swallows bile, and tries to block it out. Why couldn't he have just stayed at home?

'Here.'

He takes the water. Sam turns the TV off, and perches on the coffee table. 'You should go to bed. I'm all ready to go anyway.' He smirks boyishly, affection under the sly look. 'You'll just have to give me double next week to make up for it.'

'…yeah, OK.' He watches Sam's forehead crease. It's come to something when he can recognise concern that quickly, how every nuance of the man's expressions have been subconsciously filed and labelled. Two years ago, he would have thought that was his 'annoyed' frown.

'You must be feeling rough if you're not griping about me being a nympho.' Sam puts his hand out to rub his knee. 'Do you want me to stay?'

'No. I mean – yeah. But, best not.'

Sam's mouth quirks in a note of understanding, and he squeezes his leg before standing up. 'Come on. I'll tuck you in.'

'No, you're all right.' Gene drinks some water, and puts the glass on the floor. 'I'll be fine. It's probably from last night still.'

'Sure?'

'Yeah. Go on. I'll see you in the morning.'

Sam hesitates, and Gene can see him telling himself how he knows fussing just makes him irritable; can feel him pulling back the part of himself that would normally be inclined to coddle. He'd tried it once early on, when Gene got flu. It didn't work out well for either of them. But that's why they've been OK so far – they've learned respect for what's too far, a shared knowledge that what's expected with women doesn't wash when it's a bloke you're sharing your life with. Gene doesn't bring him flowers and chocolates on his birthday, and Sam makes him help with Sunday lunch. They don't have to talk about it.

'OK. Give me a ring in the morning if you're not coming in.'

'I'll be in.'

Sam smiles, and leans in to kiss him. 'Of course you will. See you tomorrow.'

He manages a smile, and returns the kiss. He doesn't watch him walk out of the door. And then, suddenly; 'Sam? Leave the Lancett file on the stair. I'll look it over in bed.'

There's a pause, and once again, he imagines the cogs turning. He hopes he settles on what could easily be the truth in other circumstances; that the sudden interest is his way of saying _I shouldn't have given you shit about it_, and, _you'll have my backing tomorrow_. It's happened before. Sam knows it, and Gene knows he knows it, though they never speak of moments like that either.

There's the sound of a bag being unzipped, and a slide of paper against canvas. A quiet, heavy thump as the file lands on the carpet.

'Feel better.'

The door closes, and there are footsteps down the front path. The gate creaks open, then shut. A moment of silence, then the rattling start of an engine a little way down the street. Inside, the only sound is the ticking of the clock, and the faint roar of a game-show on next-door's TV. A dog barks somewhere, a car drives past the window. A mother shouts for her kids to come in and get in the bath, because they've got school tomorrow.

Gene sits, and listens to the sound of people settling in for the night, life going on unthreatened. Blissful ignorance. An hour ago, he had that too.

###

He makes three piles. One: criminal record. Two: Personal life. Three: Business interests. It seems like something Sam would do, and he needs to try and think about this beyond the fear, and the visions of losing his job, his reputation, and every friend he has. He's gagging to refill his glass, but even he can see it's a bad time to be pissed. He stands over the dining room table with a fag, scrubs an eye with the heel of his hand, and starts by going over what he already knows.

Gary-John Lancett is a tosser. That's easy enough. Twenty-eight years old, owns a garage with three mechanics under him. Married, obviously, and now he knows he has two kids. Gene runs a finger down the top sheet of the 'personal' pile – two boys, nine and seven. Wife's name is Laura. He tries to picture her face, but he only saw her covered in blood, with one eye swollen shut. It was Sam and Annie that went to the hospital to get her statement. He wonders whether she had to be talked into pressing charges – a lot of birds don't have the nerve, after all. But she must have agreed, or Sam wouldn't be going to charge him tomorrow.

What else does he know? The first incident was reported by uniform, who'd been called by a neighbour reporting raised voices, and loud crashes. They'd brought him in, and Phyllis had pulled him aside to tell him that Lancett seemed worse than your average wife-beater, who tended to get pissed and take a few drunken swings. He hadn't been pissed, for one thing. And he was too calm – what was it she'd said? 'Did it like he meant it' – but he hadn't paid much attention. He'd told Sam to go and have a word, which he did. And Sam had agreed with Phyllis but…yeah, Laura _hadn't_ pressed charges. That's why he walked.

The second time – two days ago – they'd gone with uniform when the call came in, seeing as it was a known person. It didn't take any kind of psychiatrist to see that the bloke's a nutter, so they'd did what they had to do. He doesn't know if Lancett would have used that knife; truth is, he keeps his distance in cases like this. Ricky had been there, but there was no sign of any kids. Gary-John hadn't been calm either. He was screaming about betrayal, and revenge, and – Gene checks the arrest report, written by Ray – yeah, it was marked as likely he'd caught her having an affair, which would explain the rage. And that's it. A domestic, nothing more. Yes, he'd get the book thrown at him – previous, plus use of a weapon, but it's still just a domestic.

Gene sits, and lights another cigarette. Why would Ricky Lancett threaten like this if that was all there was to it? His brother might go down for a short spell, but it's more likely he'd get a suspended sentence. The garage wouldn't go under if he wasn't there for a bit, and his missus would obviously be better off. It doesn't make sense; it _isn't_ _making sense. _And he's knackered now. The routine of setting the paperwork out pushed the fear from the front of his mind, and gave the illusion that a solution was possible. It's still there, pulsing in the back of his skull, a loose clutch in his gut. But he's calmer, and if he can get past the mental exhaustion setting in – well, he's never let a scumbag beat him yet.

He pulls the first pile towards him, and starts to read. A sleepless night is a small price to pay for getting this fixed.

###

When he's at work, hospitals are just part of the job. When he's here for personal reasons, it's different. They remind him, depending on his mood, of getting sent here for unpleasant follow-ups his GP might have deemed necessary, or getting rushed in from getting shot by Leslie Johns. Or the time he had to identify Stu's body. The time his dad put him in here. The time his dad died. This morning there's a smell of fresh disinfectant, sticking to the air like a fly on gluey paper, thick in the cloying heat. It sucks down his windpipe and disagrees with the tension in his chest, already rough from a lifetime's nicotine and tar. He could be nine again, breathing it in the morning he had to come in with Stu. The doctors hadn't let him go home that time, even though he only had a black eye. When Stu woke up a day later, they were taken into care for two weeks. He never got told why – why that time in particular – but then, he never asked.

'Can I help you?'

He flashes his badge to the ward sister, who doesn't look any less rigid when she sees he's a copper. 'Bit early, isn't it?'

'Long arm of the law. Never sleeps. Laura Lancett, please.'

'She'll be asleep.'

'I'll wake her up.'

Maybe she sees he isn't to be dissuaded, or maybe she doesn't care that much. Either way, she leads him down the ward. He counts three beds with Christmas lights still up, even though it was two months ago. 'Why've you got her on a long-term ward?'

'Bed shortage. And we're not sure how long she'll be here.'

'Why not? I thought it was just a beating.'

'It was.' The nurse pulls the curtain back on the last bed. 'You'll see when you talk to her.'

'It's too bloody early for guessing games, luv. Just tell me.'

There's a sigh, and she gestures towards the sleeping woman. 'She doesn't seem right in the head. He hit her hard – the doctor's waiting to see if it's just concussion. She might straighten out again. If it's not…well, it doesn't matter. She'll be up on the psych ward for a while anyway, I should think.'

Gene's hand is clenching at his side. He stops it when he notices, but his shoulder aches from the tension. If Laura's not in her right mind, it won't matter whether she wants to press charges or not. She won't have a say in the matter. And that aside, he's starting to see why Sam's been so adamant to nail this one down.

'I won't bother her for long.'

'Ten minutes, at most. And I'm not saying you'll get anything useful.'

He nods, but she's already closing the curtain on him. When it's just the two of them, he lets himself look at her properly. He knows what her face will look like. He saw her the day it happened, when her split lips and eyebrow were still dripping, when the gash on her cheekbone was pouring blood like a boxers. It'll be worse now – it _is_ worse now, with the bruises bloomed like inky fireworks under her skin, colouring her wrong from the inside out. Laura's face looks like an infected boil; shiny, raw skin stretched so tight over muscle bleed that it looks like it might pop if you touched it. Gene pulls a breath in through his nose, and huffs it out again fast, so the smell doesn't have time to take hold.

'Laura?' He touches her shoulder gently, expecting this to take a minute or two. She must be doped up to the eyeballs. But her eyelids fly open at once, and she opens her mouth to…he doesn't know. Scream, probably, judging by the look in her eyes, but he recoils at once and she's pulled up short by pain. It's obvious on her face even in the dim light from the ward. A small cry comes from her throat, the high-pitched yelp of a dog kicked by steel toe-caps. 'Shit. Sorry! Sorry, luv. Don't be scared. I'm a policeman.' He holds his hands up, palms open, then grabs his warrant card from his pocket. 'DCI Hunt. I was there when – I arrested your husband.'

She blinks rapidly, and he swears under his breath as he takes a couple of steps back. He didn't mean to scare the shit out of her, but then, he didn't really consider what she might think of this early-morning visit. 'I'm going to turn the lamp on, all right?'

There's no response, so he goes ahead. She turns her face away from it, and closes her eyes. He faces the bulb away, seeing fresh blood on her lip. Hopefully just cracked, and not a popped stitch.

'I'm sorry about the hour, sweetheart. I just need to ask you one thing. Can you answer a question for me?'

He keeps his voice low, and hopefully soothing, though he doesn't have much experience with it. She turns her face back, and his stomach drops through his arse when he sees that she's crying. 'Don't… look, I promise, I'll be gone in a minute. I just need to know something. Do you want some water?'

Water helps, doesn't it? Christ, he's shit at this. Everything screams at him that he should leave the poor girl alone, that it's more than wrong to be here. It's indecent. But he really doesn't have a choice, and the fact that she can't, or won't, speak is making his tone come out desperate.

He holds a cup out, complete with straw sticking out of the top. She ignores it, and just kneads the sheet in her fist silently, steady as a metronome. Somewhere down the ward, he can hear the quiet tap of the sister's neat footstep, coming his way.

'Bugger,' he says, quietly, and yanks a picture of his pocket. 'Please luv, just tell me. Have you seen this bloke before?'

The noise that comes out of her could shatter glass. The footsteps become a run, and he backs off at once, shoving the picture back in his pocket. The ward seems to wake all at once. Beds creak and muffled voices startle from sleep. There's a clatter as something gets knocked over, and someone yells in fright. A machine starts to beep, and he can hear curtains being pulled back down the row.

'Ssh. Ssh. I'm sorry. It's alright, it don' matter-'

'What the _hell_ do you think you're doing!? What did you say – Christ, what have you…look at her mouth! Did you touch her?'

'No! Of course I didn't. What d'you take-'

'Get out! I don't care if you're a copper. I mean it. I'll have you done if you- there now Laura luv, it's all right. He's going. Calm down, now…'

Gene's breathing hard as he leaves, head held up despite the way it's spinning. He hadn't meant for that to happen, and she didn't deserve it. But she told him what he needed to know, whether she meant to or not.

###

The February air is cold on his face as he drags himself out of the Cortina. The sky is starting to get light, but the car park is still mostly dead, just a few squad cars here and there that didn't go out on the night shift. It's still an hour until shift change, but that suits him pretty well.

'Johnny. Have someone bring Lancett up to Lost and Found.'

'Now, Guv?'

'No, next bloody week. Who's on after you?'

'Ph- that is, WPS Dobbs, sir.'

'Oh, great.' He taps his fingers on the front desk, then shrugs it off. It doesn't matter. 'Forget it. I'll just have a word in the cell. Unless he's sharing?'

The young PC shakes his head, a tad nervously. 'It's been quiet, Guv. Just one other in. I'm not sure-' Gene glares at him, and the lad stops in his tracks. '-I'll open it up for you.'

'Just give me the keys.'

There's only a second of hesitation, then Johnny does as he's told. Gene snatches them away, and strides off before he lets himself think about this too much. He snaps the grill down as a wake-up call, then lets himself in, and pulls the door to behind him.

'Wakey wakey, Sunshine.'

Gary-John is practically the image of his brother. Small, tough, built out of sinew and gristle. The same hair even, like wire. You could image him being able to spring over your head from a crouching start. Everything about him says speed, and a broken nose if you look at him wrong. Gene couldn't give a toss. No bloke has the advantage when they're being woken this early. And he's been reminding himself all the way over that there's no way Lancett can know what his brother has done. The photo was only just over twenty-four hours old, and he hasn't had a solicitor in. The blackmail had to have been arranged after his arrest. It helps quell the desire to smash his nose through the back of his head, but he can't deny he'd like to do that anyway. Laura's face is going to stay with him for a while.

'Bloody-' Lancett sits up blearily, squinting towards the door. '…time is it?'

Gene just puts his hands in his pockets, and stands square. It takes a moment for Lancett to rouse himself, but as soon as he does his eyes turn wary.

'I need a piss.'

'Be my guest.'

Gene gestures towards the stinking stainless steel thing in the corner. Lancett glances at it, and mumbles, 'can't go if someone's watching.'

'You think I'm interested in seeing that?'

The bloke just pulls a packet of fags out, and lights up. 'Interview, is it?'

'Of sorts.'

'Oh, right. The sort where I leave with no teeth? Great.'

'No.' Lancett looks surprised, and disbelieving. Gene amends almost at once. 'Well, not necessarily.'

'What then?'

He pauses. This could go so wrong. He's well aware he hasn't spent enough time thinking it through, but he doesn't _have_ time. His options, as far as he can see, are to call Ricky's bluff – not an option; arrest him for blackmail – not an option; or do as he says, for now. He fingers the photograph in his pocket, curling a corner over and pulling it straight again. He'd love to put the fear of God into this twat, but he can't. Not yet.

'I've been to see your missus.'

Lancett's hands pause in the act of straightening his vest. 'Oh?'

'She doesn't want to press charges. So it looks like you're a lucky twat again.' Gene rocks back on his heels, but doesn't shift his gaze from Lancett's face. So he doesn't miss the smile that tugs his lips upwards, and he has to bite the edge of his tongue to stop himself lashing out. 'Don't you _dare_ bloody smile. Don't you _dare_.'

The man schools his face back into something neutral, but the satisfaction lurks under the surface. Gene feels the familiar spread of warmth through his nerves as adrenaline ramps up, fuelled by anger. He digs his nails into his leg through the fabric of his trousers, and tries to tamp it down. 'You go near her again, your arse'll be in Strangeways quicker than you can say 'pass the soap', you get me? I'm putting uniform on her ward – they so much as _smell_ you, or that filthy brother of yours, within a mile of the place, you'll have more to worry about than me knocking your teeth out. We clear?'

'Crystal, Mr Hunt.' Lancett shrugs casually, like he couldn't care less if he ever sees Laura again. Gene's not buying it. Whatever made him kick off at her the last time has to be serious enough for him to be ready to give it another go.

'I mean it, Lancett. She ever sees your ugly mug again, it won't matter what she says, or anyone else for that matter – you'll be going down.'

The man swings his legs over the side of the bunk, and stands up. He only comes up to Gene's shoulder, but he doesn't look cowed. 'I said, alright. Won't be a hardship, not puttin' up with her anymore. '

There's a moment's pause, where Gene knows he should either hit him, or stand aside. Or both. But he can't hit him, because he's not risking repercussions – and God, he _hates_ dancing to someone else's tune. And he doesn't want to stand aside. Sam was right to want to put this git away.

Lancett gives him a look that suggests he's waiting. Gene glares down at him, and thinks how easy it'd be to lay a headbutt right on the bridge of his nose.

'…can I go, then?'

He can't give him the satisfaction of a response. He just eyeballs him a moment longer, then turns on his heel. He has to get him out of here. CID will be in soon.

'Johnny, give him his personal effects.' He stares straight ahead while the bloke obliges. Lancett starts whistling through his teeth. Gene grits his, and forces himself not to respond.

'Keys, jacket, shirt, wallet.' Johnny upends an envelope on the counter. 'Two quid in change. Gold necklace, money clip, cufflinks…'

It's like a gypsy pawn shop. Lancett sweeps it all into his pockets, and signs his name with a flourish. Gene watches, suddenly aware of the ache behind his eyes, and a dull throb starting in his temple. 'If you're quite done, Aladdin, you're cluttering up my station. Sod off.'

'A pleasure, Mr Hunt.'

There's no quashing the bloke's grin this time. He even backs out, letting them have the full force of it for the longest possible time. But then the door closes after him, and just like that, he's gone. Gene feels his shoulders loosen, though he knows the worst is still to come.

'Johnny?'

'Yes, Guv?'

'If you value your job – no, make that your _life_ - and future career under my watch, you'll organise two of the biggest, hardest bastards we've got on the force to go and stand guard over that bastard's wife. If he or his brother turn up, tell them not to bother arresting them. Just give the doctors something to do.'

'…Guv?'

To his credit, the boy's already got a phone in his hand. Gene hesitates, then sighs. 'Just tell them to make sure no one gets near her. If anyone tries, I want to know about it. Do it before I get up to my desk, I'll give you a gold star.'

'Yes, Guv.'

He holds his posture until the lift doors close on him. Only then does he sag, and drop his face to his hands. He's got an hour before Sam gets here, if that. And probably less before Ricky shares what he knows with his brother. When that happens, he's lost all control of the situation, and there's not a damn thing he can do about it.


	3. Chapter III

**III**

He hadn't meant to fall asleep, but it happened anyway. He didn't think it'd be possible, with the minutes ticking on, and the station starting to come to life. But when his office door bangs open, he doesn't see it because his head is on his folded arms, and the stiffness in his neck tells him not to move too fast. So it's a slow rise to sitting straight, and even a half-asleep bloke can see that Sam's vibrating with fury. Gene blinks, unpeels his tongue from the top of his mouth, and works some moisture back to his lips. Sam waits until it seems like he just can't any more.

'Feeling better, then?'

He holds a hand up, as though it would ward off the onslaught. 'Sam-'

'No. _No_. What the bloody hell do you think you're playing at!? That was _my_ case. You haven't – Christ, I knew you thought it was stupid, but I never thought you'd-'

'-I didn't think it w -'

'Have you got _any_ idea what's going to happen to her now? Because I don't, but I'll bet you anything he's not running out to buy her flowers and grapes. More likely picking out another blade.'

'Sam-'

'No! You will bloody _listen_ to me, Gene.' Sam thumps his palms down on the surface of the desk, his face red. 'You had. No. Right. To let him go. Jesus, I thought last night you were coming 'round to how serious it was, but oh _no_, the great Gene Hunt gets to lay down the law _his_ way, and who gives a toss about women anyway, eh?'

'_Sam_, would you just-'

Sam points a finger straight at his face, and despite everything, that's going a bit too far. Gene turns his attempt to be placating into a frown, annoyance nudging contrition to the side. Sam doesn't seem to care. If anything, his voice gets louder. 'I thought this bloody circus was starting to come under control, _Guv_. I thought you were the sort of bloke who wanted scum _off_ the streets, not pouring them back on to it. I spent a month trying to get his missus to talk, and then he nearly killed her. Just-' he breaks off, rage clearly getting the better of coherency. His palm bangs the side of his head a couple of times, sarcastically trying to knock understanding into himself. 'I don't get it. I don't _get_ it, Gene.'

'Well, if you'd let me get a word in edgeways…'

'Oh please, talk. I'm dying to hear it.'

'I don't have to explain myself to you, Tyler.' His eyes flick up to the windows, but Sam was the first in, as usual. 'You think just because we – because there _is_ a 'we' – that I have to run every decision past you? You're wrong.'

Sam rocks back, and Gene sees the disbelief. And the hurt. He knows he'll feel bad for it later, but his blood's up now, and he can rarely stop himself lashing out when he's angry.

'I didn't say anything about _we_, Guv. That has nothing to do with this. The fact that _you_ brought it up-'

They both look away. Gene tries to steady himself with a cigarette, soaking up the anger radiating off the man. 'Fine. I shouldn't have brought it up. But my point stands. I _don't_ have to explain myself. Maybe I will though, if you'd just calm down.'

'Calm down!?'

'Yes, calm bloody down! And pipe down, while you're at it.' He pulls a drawer open to search for paracetemol. When he retrieves a tab, he thinks maybe the look in Sam's eye softens a bit. But maybe not. He takes two anyway.

'Still sick?'

'No. Just a headache.' He nods to the chair on the other side of the desk. 'Please.'

Sam shakes his head. 'Rather not.'

Gene sighs, and pulls a hand over his forehead. 'Suit yourself. Look – I went through the file, like I said I would. And I found something.'

'I hope it was the photos of her face.'

'Don't need them. I've been to see her. But that's not-'

'…_when_?'

'This morning. And before you look at me like that, I was the soul of sympathy and understanding.'

'Actually, I was wondering whether you were really ill last night at all.'

His jaw clenches. Sam says it so coolly, he has no trouble believing he means it. 'I'm not going to justify myself on that score. Do you want to hear this, or not?'

'Yeah. I really do.' He sits down as if to prove it, but he's no less rigid than he was before. Gene reaches across to his coat, and yanks a photograph from the pocket.

'Do you know who this is?'

Sam studies the face, eyes sharp. 'No.'

'Reuben Paul. Local drugs baron – just small time - before Warren took over.'

'So?'

'He was small time when he was the local pusher, but he had a reputation. Warren only grew some balls when me and Harry Woolf banged him up. He did a five stretch, came out and moved to Newcastle. We had the Geordie nobs calling us nearly every week for a while, looking for ways to bring him down. Harry went over there a couple of times. Paul had started supply lines up to Glasgow and Edinburgh, down to London, ships over to Europe – and not just drugs, either. Never did find out what. Rumours of guns for the IRA, maybe Commies out from behind the Iron Curtain, all sorts. His name hasn't come up in a while. I was hoping he were dead.'

'Fascinating as this is, Gene, what's it got to do with Lancett?'

'My point exactly.'

Sam just stares at him. Gene pulls the Lancett file over, and opens it to one of the pages detailing the garage's accounts. He runs his finger down a list of payments taken, turns it around so Sam can see, and taps. 'Ruby Paul. It's an alias he used to use.'

Sam's already shaking his head. 'I've checked these names out.'

'Yourself?'

'Well – me and Annie. And Chris.'

'And what did you find?'

Sam gives him a look, then takes the file and starts leafing through it. Gene lights a cigarette, and slumps back in his chair. He ignores the 'you've messed the order up,' mumbled at him, and forces his eyelids not to close. Truth is, he couldn't believe it when that name popped up. But he's not sure how much it's going to change, beyond buying him some time. If Ricky would blackmail him into letting Gary-John out, he wouldn't hesitate to use the same photo to get him out of a far more serious crime. So he'll need a visit later. With any luck, this could be over by teatime.

Sam pulls a sheet of paper free, and scans it. 'Ruby Paul. Sixty-two Westmore Road, Hulme. 73 years old, lives alone, drives a Morris Minor.'

'And mother to one big-time murdering, smuggling, drug-dealing _bastard_.'

'No. I mean – OK, yeah, maybe. But she did get her car fixed at the Lancett garage. We checked.'

'Hence my visit to the hospital this morning.' He picks up the photo of Reuben, and waves it from side to side. 'One glance at this, and Laura shit a brick. Young Ruby's home, and causing trouble. I won't have it, Sam. Not on my patch.'

Sam puts the file down, and crosses his arms. He says nothing. Gene smokes, and looks back at him, and tries to gauge how this is going down. If it were just a professional problem, he wouldn't hesitate. No matter what happened to Laura, banging up Reuben Paul would have to come first, though he'd try his level best to get Lancett at the same time, and remove the problem for his wife. If Sam didn't like it, he'd have to deal with it. But like he said, there _is _a 'we'. He might not buy Sam flowers, but that doesn't mean he doesn't care about his opinion. Especially when said opinion is strong enough to cause them some serious problems after they clock off.

But even that's not the issue. The thing he really doesn't want to think about is the only thing that's been clear since last night. That he might get the evidence back off Ricky, and lose Sam anyway. Because he will do _anything_ to get those photos back. He's not going to be ruined by some criminal with an axe to grind, and he's not going to let it happen to Sam either. Ironic really; this is the first time in twenty-five years he's actually understood why Harry Outhwaite topped himself.

Sam clears his throat quietly. Gene's heart sinks, but refuses to let it show.

'You're selling that woman down the river for the possibility of a catching a bloke you haven't laid eyes on in however many years, doing something that – what? What is it you think he's actually doing? Because as far as I can tell, Guv, none of this is any reason whatsoever to let Lancett go.'

His tone is dangerously calm, but that's never bothered Gene before. 'That's because you don't know him like I do. He catches wind that an associate is banged up, he'll run a mile and never come back. _If_ he thinks it was just a domestic, and there's not going to be any charges; _if_ Lancett is free and going about his business, he might stick around to see it through.'

'See _what_ through?'

'Well, that's what we'll find out when we watch him. And the garage. And Lancett. So you don't need to worry about him touching his missus again, because we'll have eyes on him.'

'Oh, really? So if we catch him doing it again, we barge in and arrest him? Like that won't look suspicious?'

'For Christ's sake! Do you have to pick holes in everything on bloody Earth? We'll work it out. Two heads better than one, and all that.'

Sam shakes his head again, and doesn't stop even when he looks away. The desperation is hooking a nail back in Gene's gut, because if he can't get him on board with this, they're sunk from the get-go. The bloke has form for wading in and trying to fix things on his own, if he thinks it's necessary. 'Sam, look – if nothing comes of it, we'll bring Lancett back in. OK? His missus isn't in any state to say what she wants, so we can say we were waiting for her to get better before charging him. We've got a few days at least before she's compos mentis enough to make up her mind. If we don't find anything on Paul, I swear you can chuck the book at him.'

He prays he'll agree. Just do it nice and easy for once in his life, just keep things simple. Give him time to go and find Ricky, remove that problem, and then they can do whatever they want. It could work.

'What I really want to know is,' Sam says, lifting his face to meet his eyes, 'I mean - aside from all the dodgy operating practices that I was stupid enough to think we'd got past – what I _really _want to know is…why you did this on your own.'

Gene waits for more, because it feels like there should be something added. A nod to their relationship, personal or professional. For him to claim he had the right to be consulted. Even just that pleading look he sometimes gets, when he wants a hint that he's not alone in feeling they share more than just a good time in bed. But there's nothing. Just an open gaze, and an expectant silence. He tries to meet it with the same coolness, but he feels his throat close over, like it knows he can't afford to fill the air with the wrong words.

'Because…' He falters. He didn't prepare an answer to this question. '- I don't know. It didn't occur to me not to.'

They're the wrong words. Sam pulls back a fraction, then looks down. Perhaps there were no right words, except the truth.

'Of course it didn't.' He stands up, and flicks the file shut. 'I'll just leave this with you then, shall I?'

'Sam. Come on, I didn't mean-'

The man's hands are up, open but defensive, warding him off. 'No. You don't have to explain. I'll be at my desk, waiting for further instructions like a good little soldier. _Guv_.'

Gene opens his mouth, but the doors of CID swing open, and pour the world back into place. Noise flows around the bubble of his office, and presses in until he's forced to become part of it again. Chris waves from outside, and calls, 'Good weekend, Guv? Alright, Boss?'; Ray clumps his feet up on his desk, a typewriter clatters to life, and Sam's walking away.

'Tyler, come back here.'

If he was going to respond, he doesn't get the chance. Phyllis barrels through the door, glaring fit to burst. 'I've just fielded a complaint from the hospital about you. Something about scaring Laura Lancett into hysterics so she had to be sedated. Hasn't she been through enough?'

His gaze flicks to Sam. He's shaking his head again, with the kind of disappointment that shouldn't cut a grown man in half. 'Soul of sympathy and understanding, eh, Guv?'

He stands up, but they're already leaving him alone. 'I only showed her a sodding picture!'

The retreating backs say it was enough.

###

He's spent all morning trying to put the conversation out of his head. Putting things in the past and keeping them there is something he's always tried to do. Sometimes it's easier than others. This is one of the only times it's proved impossible.

He'd tried to talk to Sam on his way out of the office, and had been met with the sort of cold, blank stare he hasn't seen since before they started shagging. 'Will I see you later, then?' he'd said, _sotto voce_, and all Sam said was _where are you going, Guv?_ As if their future, even something small like their usual post-pub tryst, now depended on his actions with this case. He probably should have answered with something more than a professional brush-off, but his position is an easy thing to hide behind when it's the only defence available. It'd be enough, if he and Sam weren't what they are.

He chucks another fag-end out of the Cortina's window, and watches Ricky Lancett walk up the road. The clock says it's nearly half past three, and the length of time he's been waiting is explained by the presence of two young boys carrying satchels, kicking stones up the pavement. He taps the steering wheel with a finger, a rapid staccato from nerves and too much coffee. He shouldn't have this conversation with anyone else around, even kids. He should wait until later, and get the bloke on his own. But he wants it _done_. This hellish twenty four hours could be over in a matter of minutes, and it's an idea too strong to walk away from. So what if there are lads around?

As soon as he thinks it he's out of the car, propelled by the notion of freedom. Get this done, and fix things with Sam, and then it can be filed under 'stuff never to think about again'.

'Lancett.'

The boys stop dead in front of their uncle. One of them has their hand on the gate, making it creak as it's held somewhere between open and closed. Gene pulls up the collar of his coat, and sticks his hands in his pockets. 'A word.'

Ricky looks calm, but there are dark patches under his eyes. He lays a hand on each of the boys' shoulders; Gene can't tell if it's for reassurance. For them, or himself. 'Not now.'

'Yes now.'

'Who're you?' says the taller of the two lads, and Gene has to adjust himself downwards, eyes and train of thought.

'Who're _you_?'

The lad looks surprised that it matters. 'Alex Lancett.'

Gene nods, and turns to the younger. 'And you?'

'Pete.'

'You look like decent lads. Are you decent lads?'

They both nod uncertainly. Maybe they're not sure, or maybe they just don't know if it's the answer they're supposed to give.

'Then you're allowed to stay out here and kick a ball about for ten minutes, while I have a word with your uncle. OK?'

They glance at Ricky, whose hand slips off their shoulders. He hesitates, then nods. Gene stands next to him as they watch the boys run down the side passage that leads to the back garden.

'Don't start anything where they can see, Mr Hunt.'

'Don't make me.' He jerks his head towards the door. 'Put the kettle on, then.'

He follows Ricky closely. If anything, the bloke looks smaller than usual. He hasn't shaved today, and the smell of fags and old sweat escapes from under his collar when he stretches to put the key in the lock. Either keeping an eye on a couple of kids is too stressful to leave time to wash, or the bloke's just disgusting.

'How much time did the pit give you off?'

'Enough.' Ricky stands aside to let him walk through the door first. Only Gene's not about to fall for that.

'After you.'

Another hesitation, and Ricky leads the way. Gene pulls his hands from his pockets, follows, and kicks the door closed behind him. A second later, he grabs that stinking collar, yanks and twists it 'round until Ricky's back hits the wall. 'Hand 'em over. Now. All of them, plus negatives.'

Ricky smirks. His face, haggard an instant ago, flashes into something sly, and sharp. His dark eyes go hard, and they glance Gene up and down. '…s'pose I should be glad my back's against the wall, eh, Mr Hunt?'

Gene hits him, knuckle glancing off a ridge of rib bone hard enough to hurt. Ricky flinches, but his expression sets. He hits him again, this time in the base of his stomach, but there's no satisfaction in the way he doubles over. 'Anything about me seem limp-wristed to you, Lancett? Hand 'em over.'

Ricky straightens slowly, looks him in the eye, and shakes his head. 'No.'

'I let him go. I did what you asked.'

'I don't care. How'd you think this was gonna go, Hunt? Someone like me comes across something like that, I'm expected to be a good little boy and give it up? For _your _sake? Nah, I don' think so.'

Gene steps back. The sickness he's been living with since yesterday crawls up his gut. It's like its Ricky who's been doing the punching, because for a second, he can't breathe. 'If you don't give me those photographs, Lancett, I'm going to dedicate my life to make _yours_ a living, breathing hell.'

He says the words slowly, gives them weight – it's not hard, because he means it. But Ricky's shaking his head, not letting them land. 'No, you won't. Because if you do, the world an' his wife'll know you're bending your D.I. over every chance you get. And you can stand there an' tell me you don' care, but we both know different. You wouldn't have let Gary go if you didn't, an' you wouldn't be here beggin' me for the pictures. Bet you'd get on your knees if I asked.'

He hits him on the jaw this time, snapping his head 'round so fast the man's temple bounces off the wall. He doesn't hear anything except the rising panic thumping through his veins; when he's grabbed Ricky's shoulders and laid a knee in his midriff, it's a shock to hear a young voice coming from down the hall.

'Uncle Rick?'

Gene stops short, and lets him go. He falls over, but waves a hand backwards. Whether it's to tell the boy to go away, or gesture that he's all right, isn't clear. Gene takes a deep breath, and looks over – it's the older of the two, and he's scowling rather than frightened. Violence is something he's used to, then.

'It's all right, lad.' Ricky coughs, and hauls himself up. There's blood coming from his nose, but it's not broken. 'Go back outside.'

The back door stands open. Gene can see it from here. Pete stands in the doorway on the other side of the kitchen, a battered football under his arm. He looks more worried than Alex, and Gene turns his face away. Kids shouldn't see things like this. He remembers being shit scared watching his dad fight strangers, until the fear got knocked out of him.

Alex glances between the two of them, then looks at the floor. 'Can we have a drink?'

'Yeah. Take what you want. Except beer. Go on, scram.'

Ricky waits until the door is closed again, watching the little shadows sitting on the other side of the frosted glass. Gene sticks his hands back in his coat. The smell of the place hits him for the first time – old chip grease, and ground-in ash. There's no carpet in the hall, just lino. No pictures on the wall. 'Why aren't they with their dad?'

'Would you give 'em back to Gary?' Ricky shrugs, and wipes blood off his face. 'He don't want 'em anyway.'

'Thought you said his missus wasn't fit to have them.'

'Not after what he did to her. She'll get better, though.'

There's some family drama here he's both clueless about, and understands perfectly. It's like he's on the edge of a swamp, with a load of shit about to suck him in when all he wants is to back away, and stay dry. He sniffs, and looks away, counts to five in his head.

'Give me the pictures. I'll leave your brother alone. Laura'll get better, get her kids back. You go back to work. He goes on being a shithead. Everyone's happy – or at least, no more miserable than usual.'

Ricky leans his head back on the wall, and pulls his gaze from his nephews. They've put their glasses of squash down, and have run off. Their shouts float back as if from a mile away.

'You leave my brother alone. Laura gets better, and gets her kids. I go back to work. Gary does what Gary does, with the added insurance of my little secret.'

Gene examines his face. Ricky's back to tired again, but he can't forget how quick the man turned sly. 'You haven't told him?'

A shrug. 'It really don't matter to me if you're an arse-bandit. Shag whoever you want, I don't care. If it weren't for my brother, I wouldn't have been anywhere near you Saturday night. As it is – an' with him what _he_ is – I'll do what I have to do to keep everythin' level. You don't step out of line, no one has to know.'

Gene's back teeth grind together. This reminds him of so many conversations with Warren, _just the job, Mr Hunt…I keep my streets clean, you keep your eyes closed. Sometimes. No one gets hurt_…and every one of them had made him feel dirty, until he drank enough whiskey to sterilise his conscience. How much is _this_ going to take?

'Give them to me, Ricky.'

'No.'

He doesn't know what else there is to say. He can't take the place apart on his own. Can't call anyone in for help. The photos might not even be here, and if he found some, there'd be no guarantee he'd get them all. Maybe come back some other time? But there's the issue of Reuben Paul, and the way he sold Sam on going after him and Lancett just a few hours ago.

The cold sweat is back. Ricky's smile is almost – _almost_ - sympathetic. 'Just stay away from him. That's all. Shouldn't be so hard.'

He wants to threaten something, anything, but his throat is too tight. Ricky opens the door, and holds it there until he moves.

'Won't be seeing you again, Mr Hunt.'

###

He's half a bottle to the good – to the bad – when the doorbell rings. He shuts his eyes, and his head lolls to the side of its own volition. _Tired_, he thinks to himself, and yes, he is. As well as extremely, stupidly, drunk.

'Christ.'

Sam looks down on him with what should be disgust, but is more like resignation. Gene forces his eyes all the way open, then blinks. 'Didn't think you'd come.'

'Good thing I did, by the look of things.' Sam's hand is warm on his; for a second, his heart thuds as he thinks it's a touch that says it's all OK, but then he realises he's just taking the glass from his fingers. The disappointment is crushing. 'Come on. Bed.'

'Not in the mood.'

'Jesus, you think I want to, with you like this?'

He manages a shrug. And then Sam's smiling, just a little bit. One second he's there, and the next there are lips on his. He marshals himself to respond, but then they're gone.

'Bed. We'll talk in the morning.'

They won't, Gene knows. Not the way Sam wants to. But that's a problem for a few hours away, and he doesn't want to think beyond that. He's always been good at putting things in the past and leaving them there. Maybe it'll work for the future too.


	4. Chapter IV

**IV**

The bedroom is grey when he wakes. At this time of year, that means it's about seven - early, even for a workday. He brings his hand up to scrape over his face, and rasp at the stubble on his chin. His hand is freezing where it's been on the outside of the covers, but the rest of him is warm. His head has the dull threat of the wakening hangover – as soon as he dares move properly, it'll make itself known. He draws his arm into the warm, closes his eyes and registers the smell of hot, sweet tea. He knows Sam's not in bed. His weight isn't on the mattress, and the quilt is tucked up around his back. There's no sound of his breathing. But the tea is hot, and if his gut instinct hasn't chosen this moment to desert him, there's the awareness of someone else in the room. He'd go back to sleep if he could, because the conversation about to happen isn't one he wants to face with a hangover. But he can't, so pretending is the next best thing.

Maybe a minute later, there's the soft _clunk_ of a mug on wood. He's in the chair by Barbara's dressing-table, then.

'You might as well talk to me.' A pause, and in a less direct tone, 'there's paracetemol on the side.'

Gene holds for a moment, then lets out a breath and rolls to his back. 'Come back to bed. You must be freezing.'

'I put the heating on. It'll be all right in a minute.'

He lets the silence roll. Or maybe they both do. It seems like Sam's waiting for him to start, which means they could be here a while. He has no idea what, exactly, the bloke wants him to say. It's hardly the first time they've had a difference of opinion on how to treat a suspect, but it is the first time Sam hasn't been in full possession of the facts. So maybe the way to go is to just treat it like those facts don't exist. Pretend he really did let Lancett go simply to get at a bigger fish. It uncomplicates things in one respect, but on the other hand, if they really do go after Reuben Paul then he's straight back in the shit.

He rubs his face again, and sits up. There's an instant stab of pain behind his right eye, and it feels like all the blood in his body rushes straight to his head, and then starts to pulse. He swears, pushes back until he's leaning on the padded headboard, and grabs the painkillers and tea. 'Ta.' Sam shrugs a shoulder, and picks his own drink back up. Gene waits until the pressure settles to a low ache, and says, 'Thanks for coming over.'

Sam looks surprised at that. 'I didn't come over to babysit your hangover, but you're welcome.'

'Came to yell at me some more? Or give me the cold shoulder in the comfort of my own home?'

'No, actually, I came for a shag.' Gene's turn to be surprised, and also a bit hurt that he said it so boldly. If Sam's face is anything to go by, the emotion must show. 'Sorry. I mean – I didn't _just_ come for that. But it-'

Gene's already shaking off the apology because, no, it's fair enough. They've never made any bones about the importance of sex in their relationship. It's the one thing they're both all right with openly admitting, maybe because actions speak louder than words in that regard. He smiles a bit, and tries to look more healthy than his headache makes him feel. 'I've rediscovered the mood, if you're still interested.'

He hasn't, but it might fix things a bit. Sam's already shaking his head though. 'You smell worse than you did last night, and that's saying something. And we've got work.'

'And you're still pissed off with me.'

'Yeah. That too.'

Gene tries to remind himself that it's stupid to be annoyed. At least the bloke's honest, and it's not like with a bird when it takes half an hour to get an answer to a simple question. And he did _know_ Sam was going to be angry about this. 'Well, I don't know what to tell you, Sam. What's done is done. You can either sit and stew about it – and deny me sex, though we both know how long that'll last – or help me put Reuben Paul behind bars.'

'And Lancett with him?'

He hesitates, and Sam's face immediately hardens. ' – yeah. Lancett too. Though I want to be clear, Paul's the goal. If we nab Lancett and can cut a deal with him to get to the big man, you know I will.'

'You can't mean that.'

'I bloody can. Reuben Paul is scum of the highest degree, Tyler. You'll see once we get into his files, and start watching him. I heard he once castrated a bloke who squealed on him – and not nice and surgical, like. Two bricks, and a strong twist of the wrist. You can't tell me that's right.'

He keeps his tone light on purpose, not inviting conflict for once. It's early, his head hurts, and the last forty-eight hours rest like a lump of granite in the base of his stomach. Sam's in pyjamas and dressing-gown, holding a mug of tea and with his hair sticking up all over the place. He doesn't want to fight with him – and at the same time, he knows very well that he's going to have to go back on what he's saying. Not unless he can think of a way to get the evidence off Ricky in the course of the investigation.

Sam rests his head on the back of the armchair for a few long moments. Gene watches his eyes search his face from under half-closed lids – and then Sam places his mug down, gets up, and walks over. Gene doesn't like being looked down on, but he takes it as Sam stands by the bed, answering the expressionless stare with a face as impassive as he can manage.

Then Sam sits on the edge of the bed, and runs two hands through his short hair, making it spike even more. 'Gene – I don't agree with what you're doing. And frankly, I'm a bit worried about why you're doing it.'

'What do you mean?'

'I know you like going for the big prize. I get that the bloke's a bastard. But I don't see why you have to sell an innocent woman out to get it. So, you know what I think?'

Gene just looks at him, trying to keep his breathing steady. Sam's gaze bores into him, and like any time there's a guilty conscience involved, he's suddenly sure that everything he's not told him is written on his face.

Sam leans in, just a touch. And stops. And then more, until he's kissing him gently and touching their foreheads together after. 'You don't owe Harry Woolf anything, Gene. If this is about putting someone away that the two of you were after years ago, you don't have – OK, he's a bastard, but you don't have to get him at the cost of everything else. You put him away once. If Woolf couldn't help the Newcastle police get him for good, then that's not your problem.'

Gene's frozen, frantically trying to remember exactly what he said about Harry through the haze of a long night on the booze. What was it? Yeah, he told him about the co-operation with the Geordie lot. Trust Sam to make this about some obscure detail. And thank God he does, and not just because it makes this conversation easier. Sometimes he really doesn't know what he'd do without Tyler's weird way of thinking.

'I know,' he says quietly, and takes another kiss, because he can.

'Do you? Because sometimes these cases come up, and it's like you're trying to prove that you're-'

Gene pulls back, because regardless of the situation, that's not a route he wants to go down. Sam's already rearranging his sentence. '-never mind. I just want to remind you that that bloke tried to play you, and then he pulled a gun on you. Don't do this for him.'

'I'm not.' His voice is harsh even to his own ears, but Gene's well aware that talking about Harry gives him licence to speak how he likes, pretty much. 'I'm doing this for all the people that Reuben Paul _will_ destroy if we leave him out on the streets when we've got a chance, however slim, of seeing what he's up to. And I know you know all about wanting to stop people before they do more damage, Sam.'

Tony Crane, for one. Gary-John Lancett, for another. He can see the parallels run through Sam's mind behind those sharp brown eyes of his, and is pretty sure they were the right words for once. And a moment later, Sam nods. 'Alright. Alright, Gene. We'll dig around, and see what we turn up. But I'm going to keep in touch with Laura, and keep an eye on Lancett. I'm not going to let him hurt her again.'

He nods, and puts his mug down so that he can wrap his fingers around Sam's forearm. 'Fine. Believe it or not, I don't relish looking at birds in that state either. As long as you remember what we're really after here. OK?'

Sam looks him in the eye. There's only a small pause, before he nods. 'OK.'

The relief is immediate, and better than any painkiller. It's not because things have got easier – they've just got a whole lot more awkward, actually. But it's one thing dealing with problems and fighting with Sam at the same time. Quite another to have Sam on his side, while working the other stuff out. He smiles, runs his hand up Sam's arm, and hooks his hand gently around his neck to pull him in for another kiss. It's soft, with no urgency. It feels more like a peace offering than simple affection, at least at first. But then Sam's tongue brushes his, and everything else starts to fall away. At least until they break off.

'Have we got time?'

Sam shakes his head with obvious reluctance. 'Not for what I had in mind. It'll have to keep until tonight.' A finger pokes him hard in the side. 'Don't you dare drink too much this time.'

Gene grins, and leans in again. 'Oh, I think you can count on that, Sammy-boy.'

###

_Three weeks later._

_Sam._

Sam throws the chalk down just as the clock hits nine am. He knows better than to expect the doors to swing open the second the working day starts, but it'd be nice. Just once. They stay resolutely shut, and he sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose. There are not enough hours in the day at the moment, and he could do without having to remind everyone that just because Gene tends to start whenever he likes, it doesn't mean free licence for the lower ranks. Not that that's a problem at the moment, but it doesn't help the situation.

Annie's first in at two minutes past. Her lateness doesn't rankle, because he knows she's at least been on the premises since before nine. Usually chasing up work too, or reading the arrest reports from the night shift. Something useful, which is more than can be said for the men. They'll trickle in over the next ten minutes, in varying states of hungover. Ray, invariably, will be last.

'Bloody hell, Sam. You look terrible.' Annie's concern is clear, but she immediately modifies her tone because she does try to keep things proper when they're in office hours. 'Sorry, sir. It's just you don't-'

He waves it off immediately. 'No one here, Annie. You don't have to-' it always feels wrong, hearing her defer to him. It's probably because of how he was when he first came here, when she was far more together than he was. In recent years, it's more because she's proved herself as clever as any of them, and far more than most. 'I'm fine. Just got a lot on at the moment.'

She looks uneasy. He raises his eyebrows to encourage her to speak, even though he knows what she'll say. Giving the team safe space to talk is important – and anyway, he appreciates her concern. Even if she can't know what's going on, it's nice to _hear_ someone say they care.

'But we're quiet at the moment. Just that surveillance, and the blag at the bookies on Saturday. Ray reckons he knows who's behind that, so it shouldn't take too long to wrap up.'

He snorts, more from force of habit than anything else. 'And you trust Ray's bullshit, do you?'

Maybe he said it more harshly than he meant to – he and Ray have come to an uneasy truce over the last couple of years – because she pulls back, and frowns. 'You don't know it's bullshit. He knows a lot of people, does Ray.' There's a brief pause, possibly while she puts her annoyance aside. 'What's got into you, Sam? You've been all over the place since the Guv went off sick.'

'It's not – no, it's just…' her face is open, inviting. But not really expectant, he thinks. They're friends as well as colleagues, but he often thinks she's never really trusted him since he gently let her down at the end of '73. And it's not like he can tell her the truth anyway. '-you know what the Guv's like with paperwork. Trying to make head or tail of it so I can understand where we're at is taking more time than I thought. I'm starting to fancy a mugging or something, just to get out of his office.'

She doesn't look convinced, but smiles a bit anyway. 'Well, he won't be long, will he? No one's ever known him off before, and you said it were just a touch of 'flu.'

'Yeah.' Sam brushes chalk dust off on his jeans, not looking at her. 'No doubt he won't thank me for all the tidying up anyway.'

She laughs, and puts her bag down on her desk. 'Expecting thanks? You sure _you're_ not ill, Sam?'

He chuckles, and looks up as the doors open again, then again. Voices down the corridor, the thump of a football against the wall. Chris is in, then. Annie sits and tidies her already neat desk. Only when Ray finally takes his seat does she lean forward, and whisper, 'you've got chalk all over your nose, by the way.'

He rolls his eyes, a silent _thanks for telling before they came in_, and accepts the teasing smirk in return. By the time he's wiped it off, the chatter has died down to something he can be heard over. 'Alright, alright, everyone. Nice and quick today-'

'Guv still off, then?'

'Evidently, Chris. Now-'

Ray groans as a matter of course, and adds, 'We'll all be dead from briefings and pep talks by the time he gets back.' Aside, to Chris, Sam hears him mutter, 'an' I still don't know what 'pep talk' _means_…' but that's hardly surprising.

'_Anyway_, as I was saying – nice and quick. Vince, Geoff, you're on witness statements from the bookie's job. Ray, I hear you think you know who did it?' He waits for a nod, which is quick to come. 'Then see me in a minute, and if it makes sense, you and Chris can go chase it up. Annie will do background, known associates et cetera on your fella, and if she turns anything up, she and I'll go and check it out. Everyone else, stay here and get your surveillance shifts-' he holds his hands up in the face of the groans. 'Don't start. It's important, and if find any of you slacking because you think it's bollocks…'

There's a sullen chorus of 'yes, Boss' from various blokes, but Sam's long past caring about team morale on this one. 'Right then. Off you go.'

Chairs scrape without enthusiasm, all except Ray and Chris who practically bounce out of theirs. Sam has to admit that 'off you go' lacks a certain something as a send-off for the troops, but stuff it, bluster and swagger is Gene's department. And it's not long until CID is almost empty once again, only the lingering cloud of smoke up on the ceiling proof that they were ever here at all. As well as Annie, looking carefully neutral.

'What?' he says to her, gathering files, the next in line for organising in Gene's absence.

'You look tired, Sam. Sure _you're_ not coming down with 'flu?'

He has to remind himself that it's an innocent question. Not an insinuation that he and Gene – well. To be honest, it wouldn't surprise him if Annie had put two and two together, and he's not sure he'd mind if she did. But he promised Gene, and he meant it. 'No, I'm fine. Really.'

There's only so far she'll push, these days. Some times he's more glad of it than others. Today, he'd like it to be how it was, when he could fall apart in front of her, or ask her to put her arms around him and she would, with no questions asked. But if someone asked him _why_ he needed that, he wouldn't have a clue what to tell them.

###

Gene flicks a fag butt out the window as Sam opens the passenger side door, and his hand comes out before he's even sat down. He passes over the paper bag silently, and Gene devours half the egg butty in one huge bite. Sam puts the Styrofoam cup of tea on the dashboard, and watches the steam start its slow obscuration of everything outside the front window. The radio is playing quietly: Bowie's _Rock and Roll Suicide_.

'Anything?'

Gene shakes his head, his mouth full. Christ, if Annie thought he looked bad, she'd practically faint at the sight of her Guv.

'They're starting to ask questions about whether I've seen you, how long you'll be off, all of that.'

'S'only been three days. Aren't I allowed to get poorly?'

'Apparently no one believed it was possible.' Gene sniffs. Sam detects a hint of pride, but ignores it. 'There's a rumour going around that you've been suspended on the sly. If you don't get back, it'll escalate into full-blown pensioned-off panic. The place could do without it, Gene.'

'You said there was nothing going on. I wouldn't be doing this if we were busy.'

'Yeah, but that makes it worse. No one's got anything to do but sit around and gossip. And believe me, if Ray really starts to believe you've gone, it won't be long before there's – well, you know.'

'Yeah, I do.' Definite pride now, but it seems like only a matter of habit. Gene's eyes don't leave the warehouse down the road, and there's a van pulling up to it now. 'I'll put in an appearance at the pub tomorrow. OK?'

'Oh, great.'

Sarcasm appears to be lost on him. Gene snatches up some binoculars, and gets them as far as his nose before Sam pushes them down again. 'Jesus Christ, Guv. They're about as inconspicuous as Ziggy Stardust at a W.I. meeting. Put 'em away.'

'I need to see.'

'It's the bloody post van.'

'Yeah, but _is_ it?'

'Admirable as your dedication to spying has become, Gene – yeah. It is.'

Gene shoots him a look, but tosses the binoculars down when it's obvious that it really is just the postman. He settles back in his seat, and has another bite of his sandwich. Sam tries not to watch, but it's hard – Gene's not cut out for surveillance. He gets bored, and tetchy, and smokes double what he usually does just for something to do with his hands. There are two copies of _Just Jugs_ on the backseat, and three days' worth of _The Sun_. Empty fag packets, sandwich wrappers and disposable cups litter the floor of the Cortina, which is wrong in itself – Gene isn't one of those car lovers that demand nothing but pristine interiors, but he never lets it get as bad as this. And as for the state of him personally – if any of the team ran into him, they'd have no trouble believing he was ill. There are dark circles under his eyes, and he's lost weight. Sam's always saying he could stand to lose a couple of stone, but it doesn't suit him. The lines on his face stand out starkly, and he looks years older. Which is weird, because while he looks bad, his mood has been better this last week than for the two before it. Maybe it's because the investigation into Paul is starting to bear fruit. But still, it's strange. Normally when that happens, you couldn't drag him away from the helm of CID. The bloke thrives on directing the troops, being the main man in a big investigation. Removing himself from the office didn't make sense three days ago, and has failed to become any more clear since.

Sam reaches into the back for one of the porn mags. He holds it up with raised eyebrows. Gene just shrugs at him. 'What? Nothing wrong with looking.'

'As long as you don't expect me to dress up like a bird, nothing wrong at all.' He flicks through a few pages. He's never understood the fascination with enormous tits, but he's probably in the minority on that one.

'Dunno,' muses Gene, lighting another fag. 'You in suspenders and high heels…'

Sam glares at him. Gene manages a straight face for about three seconds, then smirks and snatches the magazine back. 'Don't look at me like that, Dorothy. I'd be too busy laughing to get it up, and then I might be sick.' That could be an insult, but he's too relieved to care. And Gene's already moved past it. 'Anyway, what's going on? Social call? I wasn't expecting you until after five.'

'Thought I'd come and see if anything'd turned up. Is he definitely still in there?'

'Hasn't come out the front, and the place doesn't have a back. He's still in there.'

'What are you going to do when he shows?'

'Follow him.'

'…Gene, he knows your face. And this car isn't exactly inconspicuous.'

'I'm not going to let him just drive off, am I? That's the whole reason I'm _here_.'

'I still don't get why it has to be you. I still don't get why you're not bringing the team in on Paul's involvement with this. We've got plod with Laura – they let her go home this morning, by the way – and I'm rotating the lads around Lance…what?'

Gene's staring like he just told him he was from Mars. 'They let his missus go home?'

'Yeah?'

'Why didn't you say so?

'I just did. What difference does it make? I've added an extra body to watch Gary, and I think I'll send someone to see his brother – you know, Ricky? He might-'

'No.'

'What?'

'No. Don't send anyone to Ricky.' Sam's taken aback, and not just because it seems shoddy work not to. Gene's colour just changed, and the hints of joviality a minute ago have vanished. 'I mean, I'll go.'

'But you're here, and you said you weren't moving. Ricky was there when his brother beat his wife, and he's still got her kids-'

'I said no, Sam. I'm still leading this investigation. I'll go after I've trailed Paul out of here. OK?'

'…all right.'

Gene falls silent. Sam pulls his gaze away, and pretends to watch the warehouse as well. He came because he wanted to see Gene, and to tell him about Laura, and just…be part of this thing he started. Every day it feels like he loses a bit more grip on it; what's going on, what the point is, why they're doing it. Gene seems to be holding the whole investigation in his head, and no matter how many times Sam reminds himself that he's got all the files, he's seeing the angles, he's monitoring the teams watching – there seems to be something he's missing. A piece that doesn't quite fit. He's pretty sure it's what he thought it was, some secret involving Woolf that Gene can't let go of. But he can't bring it up. Gene shuts up shop as soon as Harry's name is mentioned, and who can blame him? Even so, the undercurrent of things unsaid doesn't sit well with him. It's getting to the point where he can hardly contain the need to prod for answers, or take some direct action. But every time he probes, Gene replies with something completely logical; an entirely well-thought-out answer to whatever query he has. Maybe that's why it feels wrong. Gene has never been so logical, so conditioned in his responses. It's like he's planned it all. But Gene Hunt doesn't plan things. He kicks in doors, and shouts until he gets what he wants.

'I'll leave you to it, then.'

'Aye, alright.' Gene hesitates, but doesn't look his way. 'You coming over tonight?'

'Yeah, of course. If you're not still planted here.'

'I'll phone you at the Arms when I'm done.'

Sam nods, and forces himself to open the car door without touching him. The instinct is always to kiss him, but no, not in public. Not when they're sober, anyway. 'See you later.' There's just a nod in response, and he walks back to the pool car with his head down, his hands in his jacket to keep the wind off them.

###

He sits at Gene's desk, tapping a pencil off the surface, staring at nothing. The clock says half past five. The lads have been out of here for twenty minutes, and Annie just left. They're expecting him at the pub. But-

-Annie sticks her head around the door, and catches his eye through the office window. 'You coming, then?'

'…yeah. All right.'

It's probably for the best. He tosses the pencil down, grabs his jacket and leaves.

The phone rings at half seven. He turns at once, then tries to make it look like he was just swivelling to check how many were waiting at the bar. Otherwise, it would look odd to have been expecting a phone call from someone he isn't supposed to have seen for three days, seeing as Nelson's holding the receiver up and calling, 'Your fearless leader for you, _mon brave_.'

'Tell him to get down here for a pint!' Ray calls out, and Chris cheers. Only Annie is looking at him, the corners of her mouth turned up. He tries a neutral smile, but gets the sense she's not buying it.

'I'm done here.' Gene sounds knackered. 'Meet you at mine.'

'Where did he go?'

'I'll tell you later.'

'And what did Ricky say?'

'…what?'

'Guv. You said you were going over there after you were done with Paul.'

Gene swears – he probably thinks it was under his breath – and says, 'Jesus, Sam, I'm tired and bloody starving. That shithead can wait until tomorrow.'

'No. Look, I'll cook, all right? Just go and see him. I want to know if those kids are back home. I'd go myself, but you said you wanted to. OK?'

There's a long pause. '…curry?'

'Yeah, if you like.'

'OK. Give me an hour then. Get your bony arse to the shop.'

'See you later.'

Gene's already hung up. Sam puts the phone down, and rests his hand on it. The noise of the pub recedes under the temptation to act, and the knowledge that he really shouldn't. But Gene's always carping on about gut instinct, right? And he does listen sometimes. Not that that makes this all right, but it's a sort of justification.

Stuff it. He walks back to the table, and pulls his jacket on. Annie raises her eyebrows. 'Does he need you to mop his brow?'

'What? Oh…no. 'course not. I've just got a headache starting, and I need to get some food in before the corner shop closes. See you tomorrow, yeah?'

He's going to have to have a conversation with her at some point, he can see. She looks sweetly amused. He doesn't want to jump to conclusions about what she suspects, but it's hard not to think there's _something_. And maybe her being OK with the suspicion is not the same as being all right if he confirmed it.

It can wait. He jogs out into the night, and heads for his car. He doesn't need to go to the shop, all the ingredients are at home. But he does need to find out if there's anything to this screaming instinct of his – and luckily enough, he knows exactly where Ricky Lancett lives. If he floors it, he might get there in time to see whether there's more to this than Gene's letting on.


	5. Chapter V

Smut warning. Don't read on if slash offends you.

Also, the formatting on this site is a nightmare. It won't allow spacing between sections without adding characters, or links. So just FYI (if anyone's reading), this story can also be followed at A03, at archiveofourown [dot com]/works/738183?view_full_work=true. Obviously, replace the [dot com].

**V**

The Cortina is parked outside when Sam gets there. He pulls up around the corner, walks back and pauses next to it, hearing the tiny clicks and pops of a cooling engine. It hasn't been switched off long, then. The urge to jog to the house grabs him, but he quells it and looks around, taking a quick overview. The street is the same as most in Manchester; red brick houses, row upon row of two-up, two-down. Light shines from between gaps in the curtains at odd houses, the rest silent and dark. It's a cold night, and though it's not too late, everyone seems to have battened down against the frigid outside air. Ricky's house is shabbier than most, with paint peeling off the sill of the front bay window, and an old brass knocker on the door, hanging sideways.

Sam pulls his coat closed, and buttons it. He cranes his head to the side to look down the alley that cuts down the wall of Ricky's house. No one there. As he waits, the sound of raised voices comes, muffled through plaster, and brick, and space. Trepidation creeps through his stomach, and he moves to the front window – there should be no call for shouting on a routine check with a family member. Even with Gene doing the check.

There's no one in the front room, as far as he can tell. The lights are on, and the television he can see is showing the news in black and white. No shouting from there. His fingers grip the wall as he tries to see further than the crack in the curtains will allow; the stone crumbles under his touch, leaving dust he has to brush off on his jeans. They must be in the back. Sam moves silently, trying to work out why he's so nervous about this. If there is more going on than Gene's saying, surely Ricky would have nothing to do with it? The man's got no prior convictions. There's no indication he's involved with his brother in any way, other than being related, and caring for his kids while Laura recuperates. But still, Sam's worried. He tells himself that Gene shouts at everyone. And yet. And _yet_.

The latch on the back gate is broken too. He slips inside - lights from the back kitchen blaze out over the patch of scrubby mud that was probably grass once. It allows him to pick his way past two kid's bikes left lying on the path, though a football does catch his foot and make his heart leap into his throat. He steps into the shadows by the fence, looks up, and feels his stomach sink to his boots. Gene and Ricky loom large in the window, one pinned up against the wall with the other's arm firmly across his throat. _Gene_. His face is red, his eyes furious. Ricky's struggling to breath, clawing at the fabric of his coat, pulling at the strap fastening his leather glove. His face is mottled red and purple, veins popping on his temple. Jesus Christ, Sam thinks, his hands clenching into fists. He's going to kill him.

He doesn't kill him. Just when it looks as though Ricky's about to pass out, Gene releases him. The man folds to the floor, too damaged to even grab his neck. Sam watches him slide down the wall, out of sight, and swallows hard in sympathy. Without thinking, he moves up to the back door – his hand is on the knob, when he sees Gene turn, and hears him say, 'don't cry. It'll be all right.'

He can't be speaking to Ricky. Sam takes a step to the right, and finds an empty milk crate on its side. He lifts it, places it by the wall next to the window. With the added height, he can see inside without putting his face on display. Gene's crouched down. There's someone else there.

'Only a scratch. Don't worry. Hang on a minute, we'll get you cleaned up.'

He rises and turns again, revealing a small boy curled into the right angle of the cabinets on the far wall. He's a tiny thing, only about six or – seven. Peter Lancett. It has to be. Gary-John's youngest, and currently sporting a swollen eye Mike Tyson would be proud of, with a cut along the bottom edge of the socket. Sam glances up to Gene, so close, only a few feet away at the sink. His face is blank, but Sam knows him well enough to see the latent anger, the barely-controlled fury in every forced-casual movement. He's soaking a dishcloth, and probably trying to stay calm so as not to scare the lad further. It's a pity he didn't think of that before throttling the kid's uncle in front of him, though it's hard, just at the moment, to feel much sympathy for Ricky. Assuming it was him that hit the boy. But who else could it be?

Gene kneels again, and presses the flannel to Pete's face with gentleness he rarely displays. Sam watches, transfixed. Gene's only ever talked about his background once, in any detail – that case with the Gandhi brothers two years ago. Since then, maybe an odd comment. He's understood it to be an off-limits topic, just as Gene doesn't mention the stuff he knows he told Tony Crane. But he can guess, from the little he knows. A violent father. A drinker. A brother who hid in drugs. Given Gene's attitude to wife-beaters, it's not hard to guess that his mother was a victim too – though Sam would prefer that attitude to manifest in zero-tolerance, rather than the avoidance Gene usually displays. OK. So. He came to see if Laura had come to get her kids, and went off at the deep end when he saw Pete had taken a clout. Fine. He can live with that. Not condone it, but understand it. His nerves rest a little easier, and he's about to step down from the box and make his retreat, when Gene turns back to Ricky.

'Give them to me.'

'No. Do what you want. You're not having them.'

'I have had _enough_ of playing around, Lancett.' Gene reaches down, grabs the man by his shirt, and drags him to his feet. 'No more stalling. Hand 'em over.'

Ricky, clearly pushed to the edge of reason – or maybe he's just frightened for his life – spits in Gene's face. Sam winces, and looks away a moment before the headbutt lands. Ricky drops again, and Pete lets out a wail from the corner. Gene rubs his forehead once, fury written in every line of his body, and whirls on his heel.

'Come on, lad. No more tears. I'll take you up to your brother.'

Pete shies from him – who can blame him? – but doesn't resist when Gene picks him up, and heads out to the stairs. The dishcloth drops to the floor with a wet splat. Sam breathes hard and quiet, and gets off the box. The silence of the garden seems loud after the noise and violence, and it's pitch black after the glare of the bare kitchen light. He has to leave. Gene can't know he was here, and it seems like Ricky's not going to do any more talking tonight. Sam steps away, then turns back. He'd never forgive himself if he didn't check. The back door opens without making a noise, and he sticks his head in just long enough to see that Ricky's on his side, and his chest is moving up and down. Good enough.

The drive back to his house happens as if it hadn't. Sam finds himself back at his flat, but his eyes see nothing but Gene's face as he strangled the man against the wall. The violence shouldn't be a surprise to him. He's seen it enough times; worse even, with blokes in the cells. Cuffed, sometimes. Put Gene in a room with a rapist, and there has to be three plod around to make sure he doesn't go too far. But this was different. He can't put his finger on why, and the nerves he had before have turned to something sick, something rotten. Whatever's wrong with this case, he's no closer to figuring it out. Maybe it's just the glimpse into the man he shares his life with. He wasn't expecting such…tenderness. How can he do that, three seconds after nearly killing someone? And what was he asking Ricky for? _Give them to me_. Not the boys, surely?

The phone's ringing when he gets inside. He snatches it up a second before thinking that he probably shouldn't. It's not Gene though.

'Boss? It's Phyllis. We've had a call from CID in Liverpool. It's not urgent, but I thought you might like to know.'

'...yeah, go on then. If this is about the match on Saturday, tell 'em to deal with uniform.'

'No, it's about Reuben Paul. They're couriering over a file. It should be here in a couple of hours. They've got reason to believe he's got a ship coming into the docks on Saturday night, and there's some discrepancy with the load. They didn't give me the details, but I knew you were interested, so-'

'Phyllis, you're a bloody star. Port and lemon on me tomorrow might. Hold the file for me, would you? Don't let anyone else see it.'

'You sure the Guv doesn't want it?'

'Yeah, but he's off sick. I'll take it first thing, and look it over. And Phyllis-'

'Yes, I know. Keep me gob shut. I have done this job before, y'know.'

She rings off. Sam replaces the phone slowly, his mind firing with possibilities. Gene was following Paul tonight – if that links to anything with transport, then given the bloke's previous it's reasonable to assume that something will be coming along to Manchester in due course. Drugs, guns, whatever. If they can track this, they'll have him.

He hurries to the kitchen, and loads up what he needs for dinner. Whatever Gene went through at Ricky's tonight, this news can only make things better. They're nearly there.

###

He's barely got the chicken in the pan before he hears the front door open. A quick glance around confirms that it looks like he's been here longer than he has – wine's open, vegetables in various stages of being chopped, a used mixing bowl. The radio's on, because he likes music while he cooks. It's messier than he usually allows, but Gene won't notice it, or care if he does.

'Hi.' He leans back from the stove to watch Gene hang his coat up by the door. 'Want a drink?'

'What sort of stupid question's that?'

'My mistake,' he mutters under his breath, and pours a glass of red with one hand. Gene pulls his tie off as he comes into the kitchen, and sits heavily on the chair by the table.

'Is it ready?'

'Half an hour in the oven, that's all. I haven't been here long. Couldn't find the bloody onions to save my life.'

Gene grunts, and picks his wine up. He must be feeling the bad night if he's not bitching about the girl's drink. Sam looks him over for signs of what he saw – there doesn't seem to be any fight in him. No sign of injury, or undue exertion, though that might be a smear of blood on his shoulder. Pete's, probably. He just looks exhausted.

'What are you staring at?'

'Nothing. Sorry.' He turns back to the chicken, and pushes it around the pan a bit. 'Do you want a bath before dinner? You can tell me about work after.'

There's no reply for a moment, so he turns and catches Gene's frown. 'What?'

'I thought you'd be on my back about it the second I got in. Like usual.'

'Well-' he turns again. There's probably no disputing that. 'We've talked about nothing else for three weeks. You look knackered. If you get cleaned up and some decent food in you, it might clear your head.'

'Who said it needs clearing?'

He sighs. 'Fine. It might stop you being such a moody bastard for a bit. Better?'

'…yeah.' Gene drags himself to his feet. Sam resists the urge to watch him, so it's a surprise when an arm appears around his waist, and he feels a kiss on the back of his neck. 'Sorry.' A tiny squeeze, then he's gone. 'See you in a bit.'

He steadies his breathing as Gene heads up the stairs. The trepidation from earlier is still with him, making his nerves fizz under his skin. But the phone call from Phyllis is reason enough to hope that there's light at the end of the tunnel. Get Paul in custody, and hopefully Lancett too. If not, he'll re-arrest him for what he did to Laura. This time next week, everything could be over. It's enough to make him want to relax for the evening.

#

Gene appears just as he's dishing up. He looks more at ease, dressed in slacks, and an un-tucked blue shirt with the collar open. Sam hands him a tray with his dinner, and a bottle of beer on it. Gene takes it, looks at it. Sets it down, and pulls him close. Sam's aware, suddenly, of the sheer strength of him under the deceptive beer belly; the bulk of him, his height, and the width of his shoulders. He forgets, sometimes. And wonders at his own psyche at how the times he's reminded usually come when the man is engaged in some breathtaking act of violence; when those shoulders are swinging his long arm into a punch, when anger makes his always-straight spine push someone into a wall. National Service should get a medal for creating that posture, but it probably shouldn't be such a turn-on when Gene uses it the way he does.

The kisses are soft, the arms loose but firm around his waist. They force everything else away, until Sam's breathless, and winding his arms around Gene's neck, threading his fingers into soft, still-damp hair. He pulls back for a second, and smiles. 'It's just curry. But you're welcome.'

Gene chuckles, bends his head and nips at his neck. 'Yeah. But you do good curry.'

Sam presses his cheek to his temple, and breathes in the smell of soap, and Old Spice. It's just a case. It'll be over soon. They'll put it behind them, and get back to more of this. They've always been good at _this_.

Gene releases him with obvious reluctance, but doesn't step away. 'I'd take you upstairs, but it'll get cold.'

'I can stay.'

'Yeah. Stay.' He smiles, and Sam grins. The lack of hesitation is always gratifying. He doesn't often stay over on a weeknight, but they both need it, he thinks.

When Gene picks up his tray, Sam's gaze follows his arm. It's impossible not to notice the grazes on his knuckles, and the one spot where he must have hit hard enough to make it bleed. He turns away, and hides it with getting his own dinner. If Gene notices, he doesn't say anything.

#

They drowse on the sofa. Sam's legs have long been resting over Gene's lap, and the weight of his hands curled around his shin, resting on his thigh, fill him with warmth. Gene's not expressive with words – at least, with anything other than insults – but his touch says everything. Or so Sam likes to think.

The TV is on quietly. The plates are stacked over on the table. It's warm, and peaceful, and for the first time in weeks, normal. Or it should be. But he can't stop thinking about what he saw, and about what Gene said. _Give them to me_. It doesn't make any sense. What could Ricky have that Gene wants so badly?

'Stop thinking so loud.'

Sam lifts his head, smiles and reaches out, wraps two fingers in the soft hair at the back of Gene's neck. 'Sorry. Work.'

'Can we leave it for tonight?'

It's almost a plea. Sam strokes the back of one finger down his sideburn, and lets his hand drop. 'I don't know.'

There's a sigh, and Gene pulls his eyes open properly. 'Fine. Talk about it. As long as we can go to bed after.'

'Promise.' It's easy enough to say. None of this has stopped him wanting him physically. The only problem is when he remembers how much better sex is when he _doesn't_ put his feelings to the side. 'Where did Paul go when you followed him?'

'Out for lunch. He met someone – I recognised his face, but I can't put my finger on his name. It'll come to me.'

It will, too. Sam has no problem believing that. Gene acts like he's stupid sometimes, but it's all a front. He waits until a fag has been lit. 'And then?'

'The bookies. The pub. And no, I didn't go in, though I was bloody gasping for a pint. After that, the warehouses down by the quays. If I had to guess, judging by the amount of lackeys he was ordering around, I'd say he was expecting something to come in.' Sam nods. Gene frowns at him through a cloud of smoke. 'What? This not news to you?'

'Yeah, it is. But it fits.' There's a questioning look, and Sam tries to ignore the line of tension that reappears between Gene's eyebrows. He didn't mean to stress him out again. 'Phyllis rang me. CID in Liverpool have been in touch. Apparently Paul's got a boat coming in on Saturday evening, and something's flagged with its load. I don't know what. They're sending the file over. It should be here by-' something in Gene's look makes him hesitate. But he doesn't really intend to say what comes next. '-mid-morning. Lunchtime at the latest.'

Gene says nothing. He looks away, and pulls on his cigarette. Sam's anticipation drains, replaced by nervous disappointment. He was expecting happiness, satisfaction at finally getting a breakthrough. Not…nothing. But no, there is something. Just a flash of something that could be…fear?

Something clicks in his brain. That was what was wrong with the fight at Ricky's house. That was why it was different. Gene was _scared_.

'I thought you'd be glad,' he murmurs, and tries to draw his legs back so he can sit properly. Gene's hand comes down and grips him immediately, so he can't move.

'I am.' The smile wouldn't look forced to anyone else. 'Just tired. It's good. So, Paul's shipping to Liverpool, and distributing up the canal. Wouldn't be the first, won't be the last.'

'And we'll be there to stop him. You'll get him.'

'Yeah.'

Gene's not looking at him. He tries to encourage…something. Any kind of reaction. '…better bring the team in on it tomorrow, then? So we can be ready?'

'No. Not…I mean, yeah, we'll have to be ready. But I'll do it when I come back.'

'You're not coming back tomorrow?'

'Yeah.' Gene's still, but he can feel his thigh muscles tensing and relaxing under his legs. 'Just got to do something in the morning. I'll come in at lunch, look over the Scouser's stuff. Brief the team the next morning. That leaves us four days to sort it all out.'

Again, with things being off. Any other case, Gene would be on the phone to Liverpool first thing, getting verbal confirmation of what's in the file before it shows up. Then he'd put something together, glance at the paperwork, and get the lads tooled up days in advance. Maybe this is Sam's policing techniques rubbing off, but if so, it doesn't feel like he thought it would.

'And what did Ricky say?'

There's no pause whatsoever. 'Nothing.'

'…what?'

Gene shrugs lightly, and stubs his fag out. 'He hasn't seen his brother, or Laura. They haven't phoned him. He's expecting her to turn up tomorrow to fetch them.'

'And that's it?'

'What were you expecting?'

'I don't know.' He sits up, and tries again to sit properly. Again, Gene stops him. It seems too much effort to pull his legs away, but the weight of the hands now feel more like shackles than caring warmth. 'I suppose I was thinking…no, I don't know.'

He really doesn't know. It's possible that Gene's not mentioning the fight because he genuinely thinks nothing of it. There's no way to measure how many people he might punch in the course of a day. It's just life, to him. But to not mention the abuse of a kid, and give no hint of anything to do with _give them to me_ – there's no way he can explain that away to himself.

'How are the boys?'

Gene quirks an eyebrow, and slides a hand up the leg of Sam's jeans. 'Seem fine. I dunno, they're only young. If they miss their mam, I wouldn't notice.'

'But you'd notice if they were visibly upset.'

'Suppose.' Fingers tickle at the back of Sam's knee. He tries to ignore it, as Gene adds, 'they were watching telly. They're lads. What do you want me to say?'

'I just thought you'd – look, stop it, you're distracting me-'

'-that was the idea.'

'-I just thought…they're two kids brought up in an abusive household, Gene. I thought you'd care more.'

The tickling stops. Gene sucks his top lip, then lets it go with a smack. 'Because I know what it's like, that what you're saying?'

'Well…yeah.' He wishes he hadn't said anything, but it's out there now. And he can't give a more direct invitation for the truth to be told.

'Because I'm a shining bad example of what can happen to kids who take the odd smack off their old man? Oh, how terrible, you might only end up a D.C.I.. Someone save the children!'

'Oh, come on, you can't be saying everyone's like you. Look at your brother.'

…he really shouldn't have said that. Gene's face turns to stone before he can blink, and Sam grabs for his shoulder, trying to squeeze the words away.

'Shit, no, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. It's none of my business.'

'You don't know anything, Sam.'

'You're right. You're right, I don't. And you don't have to tell me. I shouldn't have – look, let's just drop it, yeah? You said they're fine, I believe you, that's it.'

There's a long moment where neither of them move, the silence broken only by the pleading of some damsel in distress on the TV. Gene stares at nothing, then closes his eyes, just for a second. It's a second too long for Sam; the pain of _something_ is there, so raw it can't be missed. But he couldn't swear that it was about his background, his family, Stuart. Gene's a closed book when he wants to be, and it seems like he wants to be now.

'You don't though.'

Sam would respond, but Gene's moving, hauling himself up off the couch. He stands there a moment, framed by the light, looking down at him.

'Come to bed.'

There's no way to gauge the impact of what he just said. The size of the problem they're going to have from the gulf that might, or might not, have just opened up. He can't think of anything to say, or do. So he just nods, and gets up as well. He only has time to switch the TV off before Gene's on him, kissing him, holding his face in his hands as though he were something precious that he doesn't want to break. It takes his breath away, and pulls his mind from the sadness in Gene's voice just then. If they're not believing each other, and not talking about why, something's gone seriously wrong, somewhere. But it doesn't feel wrong when they're doing this, even if there's a lot less laughing, and dirty quips, and tugging at clothes than normal.

He follows him up the stairs. At the top, they both aim for the bathroom at the same moment, causing a small laugh, and then Gene pushing him up against the wall for another kiss. He presses into him, and Sam hooks his leg up around his waist, wanting him as close as he can get. Because as long as _this_ is all right, everything else can go to hell in a hand basket, as far as he's concerned. Almost everything else.

He brushes his teeth while Gene has a piss, then vice versa. It feels, to Sam, like they're doing everything properly because they can't afford to get it wrong, as though a misstep here would ruin something he hadn't known was under threat. He's had these doubts for weeks, and nerves all day, and now he knows something's wrong – and Gene's just… sad. It's the best word he can come up with to describe him. Like there's a weight on him he can't shift, and doesn't trust anyone else with. Maybe this will help.

In the darkness of the bedroom, Sam runs his hands up Gene's chest and rests them on his shoulders as he kisses him. He feels fingers hook on his belt, and the touch of his tongue slipping into his mouth. He moans, and starts unbuttoning Gene's shirt, desperate to feel his skin next to his. 'Lights on?' he murmurs, and feels, rather than sees, the shake of the head.

'No. Leave 'em off.'

Sam would agree to anything tonight. He presses his mouth to Gene's neck as he unbuckles his belt, the clinking of the metal loud in the silence. His head falls back as one clever hand presses between his legs, and starts palming his semi to hardness. Gene kisses the moan from his mouth, breathes his breath as he starts to pant quietly.

'How'd you want it, Sam?' he says, quietly, and presses their lips together. Sam makes his hands move, runs them through Gene's hair, and shuts his eyes when their noses brush.

'Any way you want.' The hand pressing him finds its way inside his boxers, and Sam's breath hitches as the warm prickle of arousal tightens to a point, pulling him taut as Gene's fingers run over the head of his swollen cock. 'Christ, Gene, any way you want.'

He doesn't add _just make it better_, but he thinks it. The pause that follows seems loaded, and he rouses himself after a moment, pulling his mind back from the pleasure teasing down his length. 'Gene?'

'You can have me.' Sam hears it, and doesn't believe he's heard it. 'If you want.'

Gene never offers to bottom. _Never._ He's done it, when Sam's instigated, but only as long as he isn't asked first. Some days Sam will try, and he'll let him, that's all. Some days he'll roll him back over, and fuck him twice as hard for having the nerve to think he might say yes. Either way, Sam reckons, he wins. But for him to _offer_…

He shakes his head, and winds his fingers tighter in Gene's hair. 'No. I want you on me.'

It's the right choice. Gene kisses him so hard, he thinks he could come from the need in it alone. He only has time to wonder for a second, just what Gene was trying to punish himself for – but then it's gone, and he's on his back with his jeans being stripped off his legs. He groans at the teeth pressing into the muscle on his inner thigh, waking up the soft skin in the best way there is. Gene eases the sting with his tongue, and then nuzzles between his legs; Sam feels his cock pull along the stubble of his cheek, and his balls swell, still tucked inside the cotton of his pants. He wants them off, but then Gene's mouth closes around his length and starts to suck, and he can't think beyond the toe-curling pleasure of hot, tight suction, and a tongue that just will not be still. A small noise pulls from his throat, and he draws his knees up, his hands pulling Gene's head into the rhythm he likes. 'Oh Christ, you are too good at this.'

Gene pulls along him, pauses at the tip, and uses his lips to suck right at the very end. A spark ignites, and flares down his cock, making him dig his fingertips into the man's shoulder. 'Ungh. Stop. Need to get our clothes off.'

'Dunno,' says Gene, and flicks his tongue out. It brushes the sensitive patch under the head, and Sam has to writhe away. 'Might like to make you come before I spread you out, and take what I want.'

Sam reaches down, grabs a fistful of shirt, and pulls. Gene huffs amusement, and comes as asked, laying along the length of his body. His weight is reassuring. Sam feels anchored to the world when Gene's on top of him, like nothing can shift him from here, ever. 'Take your clothes off. I bloody want you all over me.'

There's a chuckle, disjointed in the dark. He lifts himself to kneeling though, and Sam hears him yank his shirt over his head. He tries to push his own boxers down, but Gene bats his hand away. 'I'll do that.' So he sits up long enough to pull his own shirt off, which leaves him at exactly the right height to unzip Gene's trousers. He does it slowly, careful over the sizeable bulge, listening for the sound of his long sigh when he peels his briefs down, and mouths along his erection. Gene allows it for a moment, his fingers tight and kneading on his bicep, almost to the point of pain when he licks down the frenulum and uses the tip of his tongue to worry under the head. But then he pulls back, leans down and kisses him hard, pressing him down to the bed.

'Turn over.'

He turns, leaning on his forearms, a thrill running into his belly when Gene strips his underwear off him. Teeth in his neck then, lips along the ridge of his shoulderblade, and lubed fingers pressing between his cheeks. They normally take more time, especially if it's been a few days. He'd been surprised to find that Gene likes to play; the man's so direct most of the time, he had expected it in bed as well. But no, he likes to explore, he likes to touch, he licks and sucks and he said once that his favourite bit is when Sam's undone, and practically begging, when all he's done is bring his body to life with his mouth all over it. Not tonight though, and Sam's glad. He just wants him in him, he just wants that connection. Gene's tugging at his hips, raising them, pressing a finger into him even as he pushes up to all fours.

'Oh Christ…yeah. More. Harder.'

A hand comes from nowhere and presses his knees further apart. Sam splays, taut all over, waiting for what he wants. Gene pushes harder, slips another finger inside and _twists_, until he's circling off his prostate in a quick, efficient motion, guaranteed to bring him on. It would be impersonal, he thinks, if it weren't for the other hand rubbing gently across his belly, scratching his nails light as kitten fur across the thin skin of his abdomen. It teases a line of white fire down between his legs, earthing in his ball sac, making his erection stand heavy and full. 'Now. Please. I'm ready, come on.'

Gene's never this quiet during sex. But he does as he's asked, sliding his fingers free and pushing the blunt head of his cock forward to take over. Sam tenses, as he always does; it's always an intrusion, always hurts so fucking good. Hands stroke down his ribs, soothing, and Gene moans when he pushes back, silently begging for more. A push in the dark, a breach, and he can never help the gasp. His head comes up, and Gene takes his hair carefully, holding him still; there, and with a hand on his hip, pressing himself deep. Sam holds his breath, counting every slow, thick inch, and only when they're flush together does he let out a strangled cry of pleasure. 'Oh _fuck_ yes, that's it, come on Gene, more…'

He spreads his legs as far as he can, and pushes back. Gene's a rock, immovable. He could impale himself all night, if he wanted. But he doesn't want to take it, he wants it given. He raises a hand long enough to cover Gene's on his flank, and press it tighter into his flesh. He looks back as much as he can, panting over his shoulder. 'Hard. Please. Come on,' and Gene snaps his hips in response, again and again, yanking another cry from his throat. '_Yes._'

This is their fucking position. If they're feeling affectionate – quite often – they do this face to face. When they're desperate, when one of them wants it raw, when Gene's been putting that filthy mouth to use and wants him to whore, this is what they do. Bend him over, take him. It's fucking glorious. It takes him out of his head, and puts him somewhere where all he has to do is feel good. He needs that, sometimes. Gene's hands pulling him on to his cock, the grunts and pants above him. He loves it.

Gene releases his hair. The hand comes away from his hip. Sam stops writhing, and looks back again, confused. But then there's weight on his back, and long arms slip around his waist – one holds him up, but the other pulls him close, his back to Gene's chest, Gene's mouth fixing on his neck. Christ. _Christ_. He groans, and hips start to move again, and he can't do a thing but be covered, be pinned, take what he's given. Gene's breath is hot, gasping, desperate, and it seems like only seconds before the movement turns to pounding, and it feels so fucking good, being surrounded by this man. He pulls his head back again, letting Gene bite and moan into his throat, feeling the sweat on his temple rub over his cheek. The motion takes over, and they're locked away from time, moving together. It's only when Gene rakes his nail over his peaked nipple does he let go of the rhythm, and start to squirm his way towards orgasm.

'Harder…please…oh fuck, do that again…oh. _Oh._'

He can't tell who's making what noise. Whose body is whose, which hand is touching what. He had one in Gene's hair a minute – ten minutes? – ago, while they were kissing, but now he's holding his own balls, and Gene's tossing him off. He thinks. Yes. That's…_oh_…he can't tell. But Gene's waiting for him, he thinks, because someone's trembling, and the thighs pressed against his feel like they're shaking. But it could be the bed. Could be him. Could be anything.

'C'mon Sammy. C'mon…'

A finger pulls hard down the tip of his weeping cock, and his whole body stutters. Gene slides over his back, harder, faster, his voice reaching a crescendo as they move. But his mouth doesn't shift from his ear, like he can't bear to break apart, and Sam presses back into him. Arches his back so they're moulded together, almost lifting off the bed as he groans, deep and low, and lets that magic hand rip him into an orgasm that turns the world white. He hears a splatter of moisture, and then chokes, and then everything's a haze. Somewhere in it he feels Gene go tense, and then the world stops moving. Silence, for a moment. And then his name, delivered back to his own ear, quiet or loud, he can't tell. And then it's over.

###

Somewhere, in the dark before morning, he wakes up alone. Later – moments, or hours, it's impossible to say – he gets up, and goes to the bathroom. The smell of fresh cigarette smoke is rising through the house; he pulls one of Gene's jumpers on, and follows it to the stairs. From a few steps down, he can see into the front room. The light is on, and Gene's pacing, smoking, wearing his dressing-gown and a pall of exhaustion.

Sam sits, and wraps his arms around his middle. The sleeves are too long, and his hands are lost in the fabric. He leans his head on one of the railings, and watches. But there's nothing else to see. Just Gene. And a file on the table, open to the pictures of Laura Lancett, and the injuries her husband gave her.

'You know you can tell me,' he says. 'Anything.'

But Gene doesn't hear. Maybe he didn't say it out loud. Or maybe he did, because the pacing stops. Just for a second.

And then it carries on, like there's no answer to that. As though there are no words left to say.


	6. Chapter VI

**VI**

_Gene_

He rests his head on the driver's-side window, and stares dully down the street. His breath frosts the air and clouds the glass, but it's too early to have the engine running. The cold renders him immobile, though the exhaustion doesn't help. His eyes ache with it. Every limb feels as though it's filled with sand. These last few weeks have proved that it's difficult to sleep with a noose around your neck, especially when you put it there yourself. He's run the problem through his head so many times, the thought of it makes him feel ill with the need for something to change. It's like having a scratchy wool blanket under his skin. He has to _do_ something. But he can't. If he does anything, he's finished.

This is what his brain tells him. And now it's worse, because Sam reckons they'll get Reuben Paul on Saturday. It wouldn't be the end of the world if Gary-John Lancett weren't involved, but he is. He saw him at the pub with Paul yesterday. He walked in on him last night, in the house he's looking at right now. And with that file coming over from Liverpool – well, this last-ditch attempt at salvation had better work, or there's only one route left to take.

The radio tells him it's half past eight. He rouses himself long enough to light a cigarette. By the time it's gone, Ricky and the boys have emerged from the house, and walked off down the street. Pete's dragging a satchel, sporting a shiner that would put Joe Bugner to shame. Gene has to tamp down a flare of rage. Sam thinks he's indifferent, but he's not. He's really, really not.

As soon as they round the corner at the end of the road, he picks up his crowbar. He's got forty minutes, if that. The school's a mile away, and Ricky nearly always comes straight back home. The back door offers no resistance to the brute force of iron, and he doesn't hesitate once inside.

He searches methodically, for once. Not because he cares too much about whether Ricky knows he was here – though he'd rather he didn't – but because he can't afford to kick a box over, and maybe miss something. So, it's drawer by drawer, cupboard by cupboard. The place is a bloody tip, so it's harder than it might have been. Clothes are strewn around the bedroom, shoes kicked under the unmade bed, newspapers and overflowing ashtrays all over the shop. He rifles through a stack of old magazines, flicks through the pages of the few books there are. There are shoeboxes full of junk in the wardrobe – mementos, perhaps. As well as broken watches, batteries, newspaper cuttings of old football teams. Pools lists, scribbled notes, shoelaces, bits of string. Crap, all of it. And this is a room the bloke lives in – he saw the spare last night, and that one's nothing but boxes. He could spend all day in this sodding house, and still not find the things. He needs help, he needs manpower. Ten plod, two or three to a room. Get the floorboards up, strip the cushions and mattresses. It'd be no problem at all, if only he could say, 'you're looking for pictures of me with my dick up Tyler's arse – just turn a blind eye if you find 'em, eh lads?'

There's no point focusing on what he can't do. Twenty minutes down, and he moves into the spare room. He'd look for signs of anything being disturbed – dust tells a lot of stories, and there's plenty of it around. But the two boys have been sleeping here. There's clothes everywhere, and what toys they brought with them are scattered all over. He steps on a battered tin car, swears and kicks it into the far wall. This is sodding hopeless. But he starts anyway, because those photos have to be somewhere, don't they? He won't carry them around in his pocket, and where else would be safe? He doesn't want to think about how disgusting it is that they might be in here, where the boys could happen across them. Kids are nosy, and always looking for things to do. The idea that they might see…_that_. No, he doesn't want to go there.

He's sweating by the time he's gone through the first four boxes, and it's nothing to do with his work rate. He should leave, but he can't. Just one more box. And then one more. And then it's too late. The front door bangs, and his hands still on the tin of old draughts pieces he's just glanced through. The way Ricky heads straight up the stairs tells him he probably spotted the Cortina on the way back. So he stands up, brushes his knees off, and turns around to face the bloke as he reaches the landing. He looks him in the eye – he doesn't know what he was expecting. Surprise, or outrage. But Ricky just lights a roll-up, and pushes his disposable lighter back in his pocket. His neck is a livid purple, mottled darker over his larynx. Both eyes are black, and the bridge of his nose sports a gash, dried blood the colour of old rust.

'Surprised it took you this long. You're wasting your time, though. They're not here.'

'You'll excuse me if I don't take your word for it.'

The man points a finger at him, yellow from nicotine, and black under the nail. 'I'm not going to say it again, Hunt. You're not having those pictures. You'll never find 'em. Even if I tell you where they _are_, you'll never find 'em.'

'What're you on about?'

'You're the detective. You work it out.'

Gene frowns, and thinks. And really, he could kick himself for not realising it sooner. The man's a fucking miner. 'The pit.'

It's not a question, but Ricky nods anyway. Gene looks down at the floor, and breathes through a wave of resignation. He will never find them. Not if they're hidden down there. Not if he had a thousand plod go looking.

'So,' Ricky says, and for the first time since this started, there's a hint of a smile. 'Now you know. And now you can bugger off.'

'Something else occurs to me, Lancett.' Gene hadn't planned this, even five minutes ago. But he can't think any more. He can't _think_, if it's just going to bring him to the conclusion that he has to accept Ricky's hold on him. So now his gun is in his hand, and pointed at the man's chest. 'If no one knows about them, if no one can _find_ them-'

Ricky hesitates, his fag halfway to his mouth. Gene has a flash of gratification, that there is still some way he's dominant here. He watches him swallow, and lower his cigarette. 'You're a copper.'

'So?'

'So, coppers don't shoot people. Not like this. How would you explain it?'

'You're forgetting who you're talking to, my son. Don't you read the papers? I was all over 'em a few years ago, for shooting that kid who took hostages.'

'Yeah, but that were different. I'm not holding anyone hostage.'

Gene snorts. Ricky realises what he said, and tilts his head to acknowledge it. His eyes don't move from the gun. 'Not in the same way.'

'You think that's how I see it?'

'I dunno.' There's a pause. When he speaks, his voice is tentative. 'You don't wanna shoot me. I said I wasn't going to use the pictures. Not unless you go after Gary. He's me brother, don't you get it?'

'He's a Grade A scumbag, who beats his family and has criminal associations. You'll get no sympathy from me on that score.'

'He's still me brother.'

Gene's hand wavers. The truth is, he knows he won't shoot. Knew it even as his hand was pulling the weapon from his trousers with no intervention from his brain. He's a lot of things, but he's not a murderer. If someone put a gun in his hand, and said it was shoot, or take instant exposure as a queer, he wouldn't pull the trigger. Or at least, he hopes not. And Ricky either knows that, or doesn't really care either way. He looks nervous, but unmoved. Gene wishes there weren't something a little bit honourable about the way he's protecting his family. Ricky Lancett is the last person he wants to have respect for.

He lowers the weapon. 'Where did Gary go last night?'

'Don't know. I don't ask. And that's the sort of question _you_ shouldn't be asking, isn't it?'

'Why didn't he take the boys with him?'

'You saw why. He scares them. Pete was sick after he left.'

'That's probably because he hit him, you twat. You should have taken him to a doctor.'

'Bit difficult after you left me unconscious.'

He can't argue there. 'Well, I would have done it to him, if you weren't so keen on looking after him. Is he coming back for them later?'

'Don't know. I just said, I don't ask.' Ricky glances at the gun, and visibly relaxes when Gene puts it back in his waistband. 'That's better. Now if you don't mind – sod off.'

He has no choice but to give in. He knows it, Ricky knows it. He walks to the door, but he can't just leave with his tail between his legs. So he stops, and leans down so he's at the bloke's ear. 'You'd better not cross me, Lancett. You'd better not come near me. I get so much as a _hint_ you're involved with anything you shouldn't be, they'll never find your sorry carcass.'

He straightens. Ricky looks up, and has no trouble meeting his eye. 'You're in no position to threaten me. But carry on, if it makes you feel better.'

They stare at each other for a moment. Gene wants to hit him again; he wants to lift him by his lapels and shake, and shake, until the photos fall out of him, or until he's dead. But he doesn't move, and one corner of Ricky's mouth quirks upwards, like he can feel the war going on, but has no fear of it. Then his head jerks to the side. 'You know where the door is.'

###

He drives faster than usual; fast enough to even worry himself, at one point. It's hard to remember that most of the other road users are just having a normal day, and don't know that they should all just get off the road. Hard to remember that normality exists.

It's almost ten when he pulls up in the car park of The Belmore. This time, there's no time to sit and think. He just stalks into the hotel, and flashes his warrant card at the girl on the desk. 'Reuben Paul. What room?'

'I don't think there's anyone here by that name, sir. If you'll bear with me…'

His fingers tap an untidy rhythm on the desk as she runs her finger down columns in her ledger. She's shaking her head before she tries to speak, and he jumps in before her. 'Go and get your manager.'

'Sir, I really don't think the guest-'

'Right now, or get banged up for obstruction of justice.' He glares, and she's speechless. 'Off you trot, luv.'

A man appears less than a minute later. He's tall and well-dressed, with a well-clipped moustache. But his accent is just a little too strained to really be that posh, so Gene knows he's a bastard faker. And probably local. 'Reuben Paul. I don't care what name he's booked under. Point me at his room.'

'Sir, I-'

'It's Detective Chief Inspector Hunt. Whatever he's paying you to fob the likes of me off obviously hasn't done the trick. I know he's here, because I followed him here last night. What room?'

'Inspector, we are open to the public for dinner, and our bar-'

'Oh, sod this.' Gene turns on his heel, and walks into the hotel. The manager, if that's what he is, follows, but he ignores him. The place isn't large, but has pretentions of wealth. The bar looks well stocked with old whiskey, and the leather armchairs are deep. The carpets are thick, and everything is old wood, and beams, and the old school tie framed on the walls. He hates places like this, and would never in a million years put it down as a place scum like Reuben Paul would enjoy. But it's been years since he's seen him, so who knows what the bloke's into now?

The restaurant is small, plush, and set for breakfast. A waitress ushers a few last guests out of the doors. Except in one corner. Gene halts at once, and the manager nearly runs into his back.

'Sir, I must protest. This isn't-'

'Oh, shut up.' He reaches a hand out, and palms the bloke's face away. He shuts up. But one of them was heard, because of the four blokes at that table, three are looking their way. Gene eyeballs them for a moment, then walks over.

'Hello, Reuben.'

The fourth man wipes his mouth on a napkin, and looks up. He's about halfway through a Full English, and Gene almost smiles at the presence of brown sauce on the plate. You can give a Manchester lad all the money in the world, but some things never change.

'D.I. Hunt.'

'D.C.I..'

'Oh?' Paul's eyebrows twitch, and he sits back in his seat. He's about forty, short and thick-set. Running to fat these days, though he was tough as steel-capped leather in his day. His arms – even now, clad in only a plain black T-shirt – are thick and hard, covered in smooth black hair. There's a hint of Greek about his complexion, and the top of his head is bald as a baby's, and twice as shiny. Gene sticks his thumbs in his belt, and glances at his companions.

'Get rid of them. This won't take long.'

Paul wipes his mouth again, sighs, and drops his napkin next to his plate. 'It's just you, so you're not trying to arrest me for something. What do you want? They do a good breakfast, but I'm not buying you one.'

'Couldn't pay me to eat with you. I just want a word. Somewhere a bit less public, for preference.'

Gene can't help but notice that at least one of the lackeys is carrying a gun. It's in a shoulder holster, and small enough to be discreet. But the fact that it's there says all he needs to know about Paul's criminal status, these days. If he needs bodyguards, there must be serious stuff coming up the canal on Saturday.

'I've got a meeting in half an hour.'

'And I'm sure it's of no interest to me whatsoever. This'll take ten minutes. Longer, if we stand here faffing about.'

Paul eyes him speculatively, then waves a hand at the others to move so he can get out of the corner. The manager approaches, and Gene jerks his head at him. 'He tried to stop me. You don't need to punish him.'

'Got no idea what you mean, Mr Hunt.'

Gene snorts, but Paul seems unconcerned. He leads the way out of the restaurant, and into a smaller room that seems to fancy itself as a half-sized bar. As soon as the door is closed, Gene's gagging for a shot, despite the early hour. Reuben Paul turns to face him, his face moving from polite ambivalence to something a lot darker. Something a lot like hatred.

'What are you doing here?'

'Could ask you the same question. 'cept I already know.' Gene lights a cigarette in an attempt to seem cool. It's only half faked. He never has trouble seeming superior to criminal scum, because he is. It's only the reason he's here that's spoiling the effect. 'Sit down. Like you noticed, I'm not here to arrest you.'

'I haven't done anything you can arrest me for.'

'Not yet. But you will on Saturday.'

Paul's head jerks back a fraction, and he frowns. Not quick enough to hide the flash of surprise, and recognition, but almost. Gene shrugs, and takes the fag out of his mouth. 'Let's dispense with the denials and bullshit, OK? You've got a ship coming into Liverpool Docks on Saturday evening. I've seen you down at the quays with me own two eyes, clearing your warehouse. You're obviously making room for something. The Scousers are on to you already, and are expecting us to co-operate to pull down your little scheme. Nab you with the goods, clap on the 'cuffs, et cetera. With me so far?'

Paul crosses his arms, and even Gene can recognise the body language of someone stalling for time. 'You'll have to 'scuse me, Hunt. You waltz in here when I'm at my breakfast, and with – I don't mind admitting – one hell of a hangover, accusing me of what, exactly?'

'Being _exactly_ the criminal shitbag you are. But you can start thanking your lucky stars, because I'm here to do you a favour.'

The man's black eyes narrow at once. 'Oh?' he says, cautiously, and Gene feels a spark of hope. Just a tiny flare, buried somewhere deep. It's obvious that Paul wouldn't want his business interrupted; what he hadn't allowed himself to hope was that this shipment, whatever it is, might be serious enough that interception is not an option. If so, the man might agree to anything to let it go ahead.

'You've got a bloke working for you. Gary-John Lancett. I want him off your crew.'

'…you what?'

'You heard. Fire him. Cut him loose. Free him to the sodding wind. Do it today, and don't go near him again.'

'And-?'

'And you'll have time to arrange for your shit to wander up some other canal, in some other town. So when we go down to meet it on Saturday – oops, bad information somewhere along the line, never mind, some other bugger's problem now.'

Paul watches him, biting his bottom lip. His arms are still crossed, and it's a bit like being sized up by a sulky teenager. Only Reuben Paul is no teenager, and there's a lot going on behind those eyes. There's a reason he was hard to catch the first time, and a reason Stephen Warren never got a foot-hold until he was taken out of the picture. '…why the bloody hell would you want Lancett?'

'That's my business. Let's just say, he's of interest. And if he's with you on Saturday night, he'll get banged up with you. And therefore, not of much interest anymore.'

'…he's a bastard grass, isn't he?'

Gene stomach turns to stone, and drops through his body like a brick through still water. 'No. He's not a grass. He's never – bloody hell, if he was a grass, what would I be doing here? I'd be using him to get to you. He's not in our pay. You've got my word on that.'

'Your word? You're a copper. You put me away. Your word don't mean a thing, Hunt.'

His mouth has gone dry. If Paul thinks Lancett's a grass, he might kill him. And while, surely, Ricky couldn't put that down to him, he can't guarantee that he won't. He tries not to sound desperate, but isn't sure if he pulls it off. 'He's on our books for something else, that's all. I'd rather get him on that than as one of your hired hands.'

Reuben tilts his head and looks at him, his lips parted, the hint of a frown on his forehead. A truly quizzical expression, like Gene's a monkey that did something clever, and he can't work out if it was just a one-off, or not. 'So what you're saying, is that you want to trade him for me. Him. For _me_.'

'Yeah.'

It sounds lame even to his ears. Gary-John Lancett is a nobody. A garage owner, with a few minor convictions. Reuben Paul is wanted by at least three UK constabularies, Scotland Yard, and is on every Interpol 'Most Wanted' list. If any one of Gene's bosses got wind of this conversation, he wouldn't just be fired. He'd be charged with God knows what, by God knows who, and never see the light of day again.

Better that than disgraced as a queer.

Paul sits down, still watching him. Gene smokes, and tries to act like this is normal. 'Well. You know, I didn't think there was anything a copper could do to surprise me. And I was wrong.'

'Don't thank me too hard, Paul. Just cut the bastard loose, and go on your way.'

'Might not be as simple as that.'

There's a flash of anger, because he's not _stupid_. 'Oh, come off it. Carry on, and get nicked. Or fire one lowly twat, rearrange your business, and carry on bein' a scumbag elsewhere. It's not a hard decision, Reuben.'

'And that's exactly why I'm wondering what the hidden catch is. You'll understand if it seems a little hard to believe. Especially considering our last meeting.'

Less a meeting, more a situation where Harry left them alone in Lost and Found, and Gene beat him to a pulp until he coughed everything he knew. Gene shrugs a shoulder, as if it was nothing. It _was_ nothing, to him. 'Just business. Just like this is. You don't need to know what sort of filthy shit Lancett's into. All you need to know is that if you keep him anywhere near, everyone gets nicked. And you don't want that, Ruby. 'Cos, y'know-' he puts his fists on the table in front of the man, and leans over it to look him in the eye, '-I heard stuff about what they did to you inside. And you don't want _that_ again, do you? _Ruby?_'

Paul holds his gaze, his eyes gleaming with sudden hate. But then he swallows, and flinches, just the tiniest bit. Gene smiles, and shakes his head. 'Didn't think so.' He stands straight, and looks down at him. 'We understand each other, then?'

There's a cough, and the veneer is back in place. 'I understand that it's in my interest to conduct business somewhere else on the weekend. You want Lancett that bad, you can have him.' Paul stands up, wary. 'Anything else?'

'What do you want, the Crown Jewels on a plate? Just get word over to the station by five. I want to know you've packed him off. Oh, and it should go without saying – mention this conversation to him, you'll be back in handcuffs before you can kiss your mam goodbye. Tell him your plans have changed, tell him you're going to live on the moon, I don't care. Just get the hell out of my city.'

His hands shake as he drives away from the hotel. The adrenaline has broken now it's over. The wavering over whether to do it is gone, replaced by the multitude of possible consequences. How Lancett might react. What Paul might say to him. Whether Liverpool will get suspicious. What Sam's going to say.

Christ. What's Sam going to say? Gene swerves the car to the side of the road, and sits there, breathing hard. A second later he thinks he might throw up, so he gets out and walks up and down. The nausea passes, but his insides roil on, leaving him shaky and weak. It'll be OK. He'll act like everything's going ahead as planned. When Saturday comes, they'll be ready for a sting that won't happen, that's all. When Sam tries to work out why – well, who knows what might go wrong on the criminal end? Plans change, people let them down. Any number of operations go tits up when information turns out to be duff. He'll get it in the neck, but Sam won't believe he did it on purpose. Of course, then there's no reason to stop him trying to re-arrest Lancett for what he did to Laura, but she didn't press charges last time. And she's not mental any more. She can make her own decisions. So if she says drop it, Sam'll have to drop it. End of. Home free.

So, yeah. This could work. He sucks in a lungful of cold, clean air, and forces himself to let it out slow. He's done the hard bit. The stuff that's left – as long as everyone keeps their mouth shut, no one can pin it on him. It'll be fine.

###

_Friday_

He should be in the office. He should not be in the pub at lunchtime on a Friday afternoon, the day before a big operation. Though it's not like anyone will complain, bar Tyler. And it's not like it's a new thing. But he might as well sit and drink, because the whole sting is a sham. And the last couple of nights have proved that drinking enough _does_ help. It quietens the gnawing desperation, the nagging that tells him he should be doing something else, there must be _something else_ that would put this right. But he's buggered if he can think what it might be, and if you drink enough Scotch, you eventually find peace.

The door bangs open. He stiffens for a second, registers Nelson's surprise and the way his head whips to the door. But Gene knows it's Sam. Has been expecting Sam, since halfway through the third double. He doesn't look up when the man appears next to him, but does startle slightly when a hand grips his shoulder.

'He's done it again. We just got the call.'

Shit.

In the last couple of weeks, in all the thinking in circles, he realises he never really considered this possibility. It didn't seem that important. But of course, it's important to Sam. Gene leans his elbow on the bar, and his head on his hand.

'How bad?'

'She's back in hospital.'

'Know why?'

'No.' Sam seems to pull up, and see what's in front of him, past his own fury. 'Christ, how many have you had?'

'Don' matter.'

'It bloody does matter! I'm going over there. '

'No-'

Gene grabs his arm. Sam shakes it off, but not before he can register the tightness of the muscle, the way he's rigid with repressed anger. 'Yes, I am, Gene. Enough. He is _going_. To _kill_ her.'

Gene pulls himself upright. The pub's swimming, but not so badly he can't see the resolve all over Sam's face. 'You go over there, you blow everything we've done the last month. One more day, Sam.'

'For God's sake! Listen to yourself. I know you want Reuben Paul, for Harry, or your own pride or whatever. But we are talking about a woman's _life_ here, Gene. An innocent woman, with two kids. You're condoning GBH on her, all because-'

'I'm not condoning it. I'm just-' He pinches the bridge of his nose, and breathes. It's a good thing the pub's empty, and Nelson is decent enough to make himself scarce. He doesn't feel well. A bellyful of Scotch without eating wasn't clever, and Sam's rage makes him feel like someone hit him in the head, then put him on a merry-go-round. '-look, it's like the drugs, isn' it? Go after the suppliers, you always say. Paul's a supplier, of bloody misery. And after we've got him, you can - I dunno. We'll see.'

Sam pulls back. 'We'll see? I thought it was decided. You get Paul, I get Lancett. What's there to see?'

'…nothing. Yeah. You get Lancett.'

It takes a moment to realise there's silence all around. There's so much shit in his head, it's like he's been screamed at every moment, even when he's on his own. So it's weird, and he looks blearily up at Sam to see what it means.

Sam sits down, but his gaze is fixed firmly on Gene's face. He can feel him assessing what he sees, scanning, drawing conclusions, making assumptions. He makes no effort to make him stop, though the desire for it makes his fists twitch. 'What?'

Nothing. Then Sam gets up, and walks behind the bar. A second later, a pint glass of water sits on the counter, and he's walking back, and sitting down. Gene just looks at it, even when he feels Sam's hand on his arm. 'You have to tell me what's going on, Gene. It's obvious there's something. You've been wrong for weeks – not your usual self, I mean – and I haven't seen you sober in days. What's happened?'

'Nothing. You never see me sober.'

'Of course I do.' A slight pressure on his arm, then the hand slips away. It reappears on his thigh, and he can't muster the will to check there's no one looking on. 'If there's some reason I shouldn't be interested in Lancett, just say so. Whatever it is. Come on Gene, this is me you're talking to. What aren't you telling me?'

The opening is right there. Gene can feel the words on the back of his tongue, just waiting to trip forward into the air between them. He can sense the relief he'd feel at having it out there; the sheer, undiluted pleasure of being able to say _he knows about us_, and have half the burden carried by someone else.

But after the moment of relief, the let-down. The moment Sam stands up, and says, _I'm not sacrificing her for my gain_, and _there's nothing wrong with what we do, anyway_, and he'd have to watch him walk out, and know his life was over. For all Sam's good intentions, he doesn't really understand. He didn't grow up on these streets, and his whole identity isn't bound in them. He wouldn't suffer the same disgust, he wouldn't have to face the rejection from every friend. He'd take the job transfer on the chin, and start up somewhere else. But Gene always means it when he says _my city_. He can't bear the idea that his city might throw him out.

He swallows, his throat scratchy from too many cigarettes, and not enough sleep. 'Nothing,' he says, and looks down. 'I just want Reuben Paul behind bars.'

Sam takes his hand back, and pulls it across his mouth. He used to do that all the time, back when he was mad. Gene wills the world to stop moving, and tries to fill his lungs properly. Sam's still watching, and he knows he's doing a bad job of hiding his struggle.

Eventually, he asks, quietly, 'is this about us?'

Gene pauses, but only because the question takes a beat or two to settle in his head. Long enough for an expression of hurt, and…fear? – to spread across Sam's face. '-if it's about us, you have to tell me.'

'It's not about us. There isn't any 'it'. I'm just trying to catch a scumbag.'

'You're lying.'

'I'm not.'

'You're lying, and you're pissed, so you're doing a fucking bad job of it.'

'Why do you always have to make this personal, Tyler? You're worse than a sodding bird, sometimes.' He looks to the bar, bypasses the water, and grabs his Scotch. And mutters through clenched teeth, 'Christ, why couldn't I have been born normal?'

It takes three attempts to drain the glass, forcing the liquid past the lump in his throat. He slams the glass down, and finds his lighter so he can spark up. Nelson's still gone, no one comes through the door. Nothing, and no one, to distract from the silence coming from Sam, louder than shouting, filled with shock and hurt.

He hears the stool scrape back. He doesn't look. Sam doesn't make him.

'She's in hospital, so you have your day. No matter what happens tomorrow, I'm knocking Lancett's door down first thing Sunday morning. And after that, you and me are going to have a conversation. You're going to be sober for it. And if you don't start talking-'

He doesn't have to finish the sentence. The threat. Whatever it is. Gene listens to him walk to the door, and forces his head not to drop. But Sam does have something else to say. It comes quietly, and hits all the harder for it.

'For the record, Gene – we are 'normal'. You're going to have to accept it sometime.' A pause, and now his head is too heavy to keep up. He's looking at the floor when he hears, '…for the love of God, _please_ accept it.'

No answer is required. The door closes quietly, and he's left on his own. Something, he thinks, he might have to get used to pretty soon.


	7. Chapter VII

**VII**

_Sam_

Sam had made sure he got the high vantage point, looking down over the warehouse. From up here on the service road, he can see right down into the car park, and along one side of the building. There's a long embankment between here and there, but he reckons he can slide down fast enough, when the moment comes. It's dark, and with the lights around the buildings, there's not a chance he can be seen. He's surprised Gene didn't call this spot for himself, but then, Gene's not here yet. And he'd said he wanted to be on the ground, ready to dive in at the crucial moment and make the collar himself. Which is fair enough. It's in keeping with his hands-on attitude to life. Perfectly normal. If he were _here_.

He hears the shiver in Annie's breath, and glances over as she pulls her coat a bit tighter around her body.

'You all right?'

'I'm fine, Sam. Stop asking. It's just cold.'

'Sorry.'

He goes back to scanning the area with his binoculars. He's not expecting to see any movement from Reuben Paul yet - they're early, and the barge will still be a fair distance away. But any other movement, and they might be sunk. So he looks hard, and after a couple of minutes, grabs up his radio.

'Ray, you there?'

Static for a moment. And then, '…_copy that. Over._'

Sam rolls his eyes. He and Chris have been sodding about with the radios since Thursday, trying to out-police each other. He's regretting telling Chris, at the pub last year, about coded designations for ethnicities. Ray's been grading women as IC one to ten ever since.

'I can see you moving about from here. Stay in one place, or take your watch off. It's catching the light.'

'_Roger that. Officer needed to take a piss. Over_.'

'Taking the piss right now, aren't you? Just take your watch off. This is serious.'

'_Roger that. Over and out.'_

Sam chucks the radio onto the dashboard. Annie picks it up immediately, and turns it over. 'Steady on. You'll break it.' Satisfied that it's all right, she keeps it on her lap. 'What's got into you tonight? You're a bag of nerves.'

'I'm fine. I just want to get it over with.'

Her unspoken reply is in the air, that maybe getting everyone in place so early was a mistake. Alright, so it has merit in that they can conceal themselves before Paul and his crew turn up. On the other hand, the men are bored, and it's freezing, and it started to drizzle ten minutes ago. They're alright in the car, but most of the team are exposed out there. He tells himself that it's necessary, picks his binoculars up again, and starts to re-check. Minutes pass in silence, and then Annie sighs.

'He's still not here, then?'

'No. I think we'd have heard about it if he was.'

'We're early, Sam. He'll be here. Didn't he say he'd come straight from the hospital?'

'Yeah.'

'So, he'll be here.'

'Yeah.'

He puts the binoculars down. Rubs his hands together, blows on them. Sits on them. The rain has started to come a little harder, so he starts the engine long enough to click the wipers on, then kills it. He watches his breath bloom into the air, and tries to calm the nerves fizzing under his skin. He'll be here. Yesterday was just…him being him. He's a drunk that tends towards the maudlin, sometimes. That's all. They'll talk about it tomorrow, and straighten it out and…

He snatches the radio from Annie's lap. 'Alpha Two to eight-six-zero, come in.'

'_Eight-six-zero, receiving. Everything all right, Boss? Over._'

'Yeah, Phyllis. Just checking - has the Guv got his radio with him? Over.'

'_Hang on…yeah, it's checked out. Why, he not answering?_'

'Just – no, it's fine. Hold on – what time's visiting over at the hospital?'

'_I'm not an NHS helpline, Boss. But – half an hour ago. Over.'_

Sam's fingers tighten around the radio.

'…_you there, Boss? Over.'_

'Yeah. Yeah, sorry Phyllis. Dispatch someone over there, would you? He went to see Laura Lancett. Tell him he's needed down at the quay. Over.'

'_Laura Lancett? But she's not there. She checked herself out this morning.'_

'...say again, eight-six-zero?'

'_Laura Lancett checked herself out of the hospital this morning. Against medical advice, mind you.'_

'Why weren't we told!?'

'…_you were. Over.'_

He tells himself the feeling of dread is just because of the operation. It's just the tension that comes before anything like this. Add new information to an already charged situation, you always start to feel like something terrible is about to happen.

Gut instinct, Gene calls it.

'Who was told, Phyllis?'

'_The Guv. I did it meself. Over._'

'…thanks. Out. No, wait! Send a car over to her house, would you? Just to watch for a bit.'

'_Will do, Boss. Over and out.'_

He places the radio carefully on the dashboard. Rain starts to splat against the windscreen, and he swallows past a dry throat. He's aware that Annie's watching him, and after a minute, rubs his hand over his mouth. It breaks the moment, and she says, 'maybe he meant he was visiting her at home, not at the hospital.'

But he'd said; hospital. He'd said it, clear as anything. _Tyler, I'm off to the hospital. Might as well make sure Lancett doesn't try and see her before tonight._ And he'd thought that maybe Gene was trying to make up for yesterday, and prove that he did care after all. Showing that he wasn't forgetting her in his zeal to nail Reuben Paul. He'd taken it as a sign that things would be all right when this was over, and they finally talked about it. So he'd asked whether Gene had put a couple of uniform on her ward, like last time. And he'd said, _yeah. Don't worry. She'll be fine._

He glances over at Annie. 'Yeah. Probably.'

He doesn't sound convincing even to his own ears, and tries to cover by looking out of the window. Everything's blurry through the rain dribbling down the glass, distorting the world outside. His eyes unfocus, and the light from the lamps over the warehouse doors turn from points of white, to indistinct blobs through which nothing can be seen. Quicker than blinking, clarity to blindness.

'He's been in a bit of a state recently, hasn't he?' Annie says, and he recognises her tone. It's the one she uses when she's probing, but isn't sure of how far she can step. 'But you'd know better than me.'

'What do you mean?'

It comes out more harsh than he'd meant, and she pulls back. 'Just that you spend more time with him than anyone else.' A long pause. 'On the job, I mean.'

He moves his eyes. The world pulls back into focus. He doesn't move, and he gets the sense she's holding herself very still.

'…that's not what you mean, is it?'

'Well…sorry. It doesn't matter.'

He draws a breath, and lets it out slowly. It seems loud in the close confines of the car. The air fogs. 'Just ask, if you want to know.'

'…all right. Are you and him…?'

'-what?'

'Together.'

He bites his bottom lip, and lets his forehead rest against the glass. It's cold. A few seconds later, his skin starts to itch in the way skin does when pressed against windows. 'Yeah.'

Eventually, he has to look around. Her silence tells him nothing. He raises his eyebrows, and presses his lips together, trying to say _sorry_, but aware it might come across as, _want to make something of it?_ Annie just looks at him steadily. And then smiles – a little sadly, he thinks – and puts a hand on his arm. 'Don't worry. I won't tell.'

Relief comes, followed by surprise that it has. Because he hadn't planned to tell her – at least, not like this – and hasn't had time to get nervous about it. But still, there it is. She says she won't tell, and he believes her. It doesn't matter to him, but it would to Gene.

'Thanks. I – look, don't let him know you know, will you? He'll freak out.'

'Can't blame him. But no, of course I won't.'

He examines her face. Somehow, he thought there'd be more to it than that. Shock, or anger, or maybe disgust. But she just looks a bit disappointed. 'Look, you know – if it weren't for him, I would have…' He trails off, because it's probably rude to point out that ultimately, he chose Gene over her. '…what I mean is-'

'I know what you mean. He's…well, he's him. And you and him have always been…y'know. The way you are.'

Is that a compliment? He's not sure. He just shrugs a shoulder, and rests an elbow on the door. Her eyes don't leave his face, and he's not sure what else he should say. 'So you're not…pissed off? It wasn't anything you did, if that's what you're thinking.'

Her eyes go wide, and she snorts. 'No, Sam. That's not what I thinking. Why would it be my fault?'

'No, I didn't mean – shit, sorry.' He attempts a smile. 'Sorry. Really. I wasn't expecting this conversation today.'

'But you were going to tell me?'

'…yeah. I think so. It's just awkward. He's really big on keeping it quiet, you know?'

'Of course he is, Sam. It'll be the end of him, if it got out.'

She says it so casually, as though it's obvious, and he's stupid for pointing out the need for secrecy. Just like Gene, in fact. Sam feels the familiar gulf; the difference in thinking he still has trouble wrapping his head around at times. Then she smiles, and says, 'I told you when I met you – you didn't seem like the rest of them. It's what made you attractive.'

'To you, or him?'

'Both, obviously.' She chuckles, mostly to herself.

'What?'

'I was just thinking that he's not like all the rest, either. He just hides it better.'

He huffs, a small sound of amusement, and it's amazing, really. Talking about it with someone else, and how much better he feels, thinking about him and Gene the way he did before it started to go wrong. 'He's a good bloke. So – hang on, if he's different, does that mean he's attractive now too?'

She grins. 'What makes you think he hasn't always been?'

He pulls a face at her. She pulls one back. And that's that - until a mischievous look comes over her face. 'Who's the girl, then?'

'Annie!'

'Sorry! Sorry.'

She bites her lip, and forces her face back into neutral. The look of someone used to keeping inappropriate thoughts far away from the surface, someone who can only think such things where no one else can see. He quirks a corner of his mouth to show it's OK, then goes back to looking out the window. A minute passes, and he snatches the binoculars up once more.

'Where _is_ he?'

###

_Gene_

The fingers of one hand beat a staccato tattoo on his thigh. His foot is tapping; quick, jerky, and he can't make it stop. Rain falls steadily on the roof of the Cortina, but not so loud that he can't hear, from the radio in his other hand, Phyllis's direct tones. _Who was told? ….the Guv. I did it meself._

He swears, and tosses the thing down on the passenger seat. He pinches the bridge of his nose, and tries to think. OK, so Tyler knows he lied. He'll just have to pass it off as being distracted by the sting. Maybe he can salvage the situation if he goes over to her house now.

He turns his gaze back to the house up the drive – Reuben Paul's house. It's set back from the road, and half obscured by trees, but he can see lights on in the front. Occasionally, they shine off a bald head moving back and forth, so he's reasonably sure Paul's in there. Which is good. If he's in there, he's not on his way to the quay. He's got no good reason to believe the man would go back on their impromptu arrangement, apart from the look on his face when they were alone. He wouldn't put it past him to try and go ahead with his delivery, just to spite the police. With any luck, the risk is too big for him. And the man did as he was told the other day. A note had been delivered, confirming that Gary-John was removed from the job. Now it's nearly ten o clock, and Paul's still in his house. So far, so good. He might even allow himself hope, if it weren't for Sam's insistence on picking Lancett up tomorrow for his latest assault. He still doesn't know what to do about that, but it's a problem for a few hours' time.

He picks the radio up, and buzzes Phyllis. She sounds as annoyed as ever, which is, at least, a comforting point of consistency.

'_D.I. Tyler's asking where you are. I've had to send someone out looking. Over.'_

'Sorry, mam. Didn't realise I wasn't allowed out to play past teatime. Where's the barge?'

He hears her sigh, but all she says is, '_Hold on…OK, Geoff's just followed it past the first city lock. Should be at quay fifteen in about twenty minutes. Over.'_

'Fine. Tell Tyler to unknot his knickers. I'll be there. Out.'

His fingers are still drumming his leg. He stares at the house, then sighs. Ten minutes over to the Lancett's, a quick look, ten minutes down to the quay. He shouldn't bother checking up on her, but he has to be able to tell Sam something. And it's probably the right thing to do. He clicks the radio on again.

'Vince? I'm leaving Paul's now. Come back and take over. He so much as sets foot outside the door, I want to know about it.'

'_Roger that, Guv.'_

The wind buffets the car as he accelerates through the streets. It's quiet for a Saturday night, but that's not surprising given the way the rain's started coming down. He swears under his breath when he pulls into the Lancett's street, because it's lined by cars either side. No one wants to drive tonight. He's forced to park at the very end of the road, and walk back. They live right in the middle of a row of terraces, and his mind maps his position as he walks. If he went to the other end, turned left, walked on and took the second right, he'd end up at Ricky's door. People don't move far from their starting point, around here. The school's almost a mile in the other direction; Gary-John's garage…he calculates quickly. Five streets past Ricky's, on the junction that joins with the main road into the city. Cross that junction, cut through the grounds of the old cotton mill, cover the wasteland, and you're at the canal.

He stops outside number twenty-six. It looks the same as every other house. Just as clean, just as in order. The boys' bikes are leant neatly by the front door, and it looks like the windowsill has had fresh paint recently. It's perfectly normal, apart from the obvious row going on inside. He can hear a familiar tone – Gary-John – from here, and for a split-second, is taken back to any number of different times, in a street not far away, with a different number on the door. Coming home from school, and standing on the pavement with the same sense of dread curdling in his gut, as a male voice raised within.

He shakes off the memory, and steps through the gate. It takes two strides to get to the front window. There's no one in the living room, but he can see through into the hall. Laura's taller than her husband, so he can see her blond hair framed against the stair-wall. Her face is obscured by Gary-John's head, as he stands in front of her and yells. His fury is obvious, his shoulders and back taut with it, his finger jabbing towards her, and then the door, and then up in the air. The wind outside whips his words away, though Gene strains to hear.

'…told you _no_…you're not…if I hear any…fucking kill you, you bitch!'

Gene pushes his tongue against the back of his teeth, and looks away. Christ. He needs to get out of here. He should have been at the quay half an hour ago. He's never missed one of his own operations, and Sam's going to have enough questions about why this one fails as it is. Lancett's at home, so he's not out doing anything illegal. Ricky didn't tell him he had to stop the man from hitting his wife.

But he has to keep Sam away from Lancett too. And beyond that – well. All of that's irrelevant, if he's honest. Because Gene Hunt does not walk away from criminal scumbags if he can help it, and never if they're about to batter a woman. He can't stand here and do nothing. He should. But he can't.

A cry rings out, high-pitched and pained. He's moving before he realises it, thinking _she hasn't learned to keep quiet yet_, a thought yanked from the pure knowledge of experience. He pushes it away, and bangs on the door.

'Lancett! Open up.'

Everything goes quiet. He listens hard, but hears nothing beyond the whistle of the wind, and the thumping of his own blood in his ears. Maybe the bastard has his hand over her mouth, pinning her to the wall. It's an image all too easy to see, and he bangs again.

'Lancett!'

The door swings open. Gary-John glares at him, eyes slitted in rage, every inch a man interrupted in the middle of something big. 'What?'

Gene draws himself up, and sticks his hands in his pockets. He can't hit him. 'Just passing. Thought I'd look in on your missus, seeing as she checked herself out of hospital.'

'Bugger off, Hunt.'

'Don't think so, matey.' He looks past him, to where Laura is leaning against the wall. She pulls her hand away from her face quickly, as if it was never there, holding her cheek. But he sees the way it's shaking, and the livid fingerprints of the blow she just took. 'You alright, luv?'

She nods, and swallows. 'Fine.'

There are tears in her eyes. He looks her over, and sees the remnants of the injuries he saw when he visited her in hospital. Sketch lines of scars, under fresh bruises, and a day-old cut on her lip. She looks like she's having trouble standing straight, so the bastard obviously worked her ribs this time.

'You heard her. She's fine.'

His gaze travels back to Gary-John. For a stretch of time – it seems long, but is probably only seconds; his mind's too blank to gauge it – he just looks at him. And then, suddenly, he finds his arms moving. A spark of white fire under his skin, a jolt of electricity, and his limbs are jerked out of his control. Gary-John is against the wall, and Gene finds his hands full of shirt, twisted up so tight the man's forced up on his tip-toes.

He's about to head-butt him. But, no. No no no, can't do that. So he breathes, and tries to hold himself back, and it takes so much effort it hurts. The desire to batter this bastard into the ground is so strong, he can taste the need for it in his mouth. His arms tremble with suppressed adrenaline, and he sees the fight in Gary-John replaced by doubt, or maybe fear. Typical. Bullies always cower before superior strength.

He looks to the side. Laura looks horrified, but he can't help that. 'You got somewhere to go, luv?'

'I – I can't. The boys.'

'Take 'em with you.'

She's trapped, her scared eyes flicking between the two of them. Gene's seen that look before too, long before he joined the force. His mother's eyes, knowing she should get her sons away from this, but too frightened to move. No money, no options. No guts. They'd been ripped out a long time before.

'You'll be alright,' he says, calmly. Gary-John is struggling in his grasp. 'You will. Get out of here.'

She seems to vibrate on the spot, torn. Then her husband roars in frustration, and Gene feels him clawing at his arm. The noise breaks something, and Laura bolts. Up the stairs, two at a time, never mind how much her body must be hurting. Gene turns back to Gary. At some point, the grasp on his shirt became grasping skin, and he's been twisting flesh. 'You,' he says. 'Will leave her alone. You're not going to follow her. In fact, it'd be better if you buggered off for good.'

Gary-John spits at him, his face red with agony. Gene just holds him, filled with a strange sort of calm, stronger than any rage. He fills a bit like he's turned to stone, and nothing could shift him. He's not sure he's capable of letting go. Maybe this is the true meaning of 'white hot rage', when you pass red and come out on the other side, to something pure, and clear, and immovable. Gary twists like a landed fish, and he just watches; the boy holding the mackerel by the tail.

'Get off…get _off_, you fucking…'

A kick lands on his shin. Pain shoots up his leg, and he flinches. Another, and the feel of steel toecaps is unmistakeable, with the way they bury their way into muscle. Something else he knows from experience. His fingers dig into Lancett's chest, steel into packed clay, and the man howls. Another kick, and another, and Gene feels his leg start to numb. But he can't let go. He doesn't know what'll happen when he does, where they'll go from here. He can hear young voices upstairs, and the thump of a suitcase, with its jangling zips. She's going then.

Pain comes from nowhere. He feels it before his brain registers the dull _thud_ of the knee smashing into his bollocks, breaking his peace. He grunts, and sinks, and Gary-John locks his hands together, and brings them crashing down on his skull. The world tilts sideways, and the next thing he knows, his back is on the floor. There are hands on him, pulling at his belt, but he can't think beyond the agony swirling behind his eyeballs, and throbbing between his legs.

'You had no right coming in here,' says Lancett, and he's probably right. But, there. He did it. It's done. And Gary-John doesn't run up the stairs after his wife. Gene sees him walk out of the front door. Even through the pain, it's easy to make out the gun now resting in his grip.

_###_

_Sam_

'_Alpha Two, receiving?'_

'Go ahead, Phyllis.'

'_Vince just checked in. Reuben Paul has just left his house. He's following.'_

'Is he coming this way?'

'_No. Not at present. Seems to be heading south, away from your location. Vince'll keep us updated._'

'You sure? - no, never mind that. Where's the barge?'

'_Should be with you any minute._'

'Roger that. Tell Vince to stay on him.'

He glances over at Annie. She looks as worried as he feels. Of course, there's no real reason Paul should be here when his stuff comes in. Presumably he has people he trusts. Lancett might be one of them. But it doesn't seem in keeping with what Gene observed, when he was watching. Paul was here every day, keeping things in close order. Sam had assumed – everyone had assumed – that the boss would be here at the crucial point. But he's heading in the opposite direction. And Gene still hasn't shown up. It feels _wrong_.

'Right. We'll sit tight. He might just be taking a roundabout route.' He clicks the radio again. 'All units, stay alert. The barge is only a minute away. We'll wait until they've started unloading. Go on my signal.'

'_The Guv not here, then?'_

'Not yet, Ray. He will be. Anyone got eyes-on the target?'

Silence. And then, Chris. '_Roger that, Boss. I can see it. There's blokes all over it. Over._'

'OK everyone, this is it. Wait-'

Ray buzzes in. '_Van approaching. Two vans. They've come through the gate on the other side of the building from you, Boss. Hold on…yeah, opening up now. Ten blokes, that I can see._'

'Alright, lads. There's still more of us. Keep uniform close. Do not; repeat, do _not_ move in without back up.'

He doesn't need binoculars to see the barge. All of a sudden, the warehouse doors are drawn open, the metallic screech of unoiled casters ripping through the wind and rain. Light spills out in a yellow haze, and the side of the boat comes to rest against the canal wall. He dare not turn the engine on to use the wipers again, so carefully cracks open the door to get a clearer view. Men are jumping onto land – eight that he can see at first glance, and probably more inside – and more are around the warehouse. The vans are brought around to be parked on Sam's side of the building, not far below his vantage point. Perfect. If they're left there, they'll be good to hide behind.

Annie's breathing is fast, but controlled. He can feel his own nerves settle to the familiarity of the inevitable. The waiting's over, and now it's time to do what has to be done. He sees boxes being passed off the boat, and they're obviously heavy. There are four big men to each one, and more to the bigger loads. They don't seem to have machinery to help, which might explain why there are so many of them. But these details don't matter. He files them away, and watches. One box in the warehouse. Two. Three. He looks over to Annie.

'You ready?'

'Ready.'

The radio clicks in his hand. 'All units – _go go go go go.'_

_###_

Gene fights the urge to retch. Every step brings a wave of nausea. He can't tell if it's from the bang on the head, or the knee in the groin. It doesn't matter. He has to get to Lancett. He has to get his gun back.

The man runs as fast as he would expect from a man that size. But the streets are long and straight, and well-lit even through the driving rain. Gene forces himself into a proper stride, and wipes water from his eyes to keep Lancett in his sights. He's not as fast, but his legs are long and cover the ground rapidly enough. He sees him turn left, and forces down the urge to puke as he pushes on. Just as he makes the end of the road, he sees Gary-John turn right up ahead. Ricky's street.

He slows as he nears the familiar door. It stands open. He hears raised voices once again, through the sound of his own gasping breaths. He pulls to a stop, fills his lungs, then turns and throws up over the nearest wall. He hasn't eaten much recently, so there's not much to bring up. And it helps clear his head. He wipes his mouth, and approaches the house, stepping to the side of the door so he can listen.

'I don't give a fuck what you've done with her. I just want-'

'I haven't done anything! '

'-shut _up_. The copper's at my house. I'm goin' to find Reuben, and if I get back and she's anywhere near you-'

'Bloody Reuben's gonna get you banged up. I've tried to hel-'

'Shove it, Ricky. I'm running. You can-'

'Where'd you get that gun? Fuck's sake, Gary…'

'It's the copper's. I'm coming back for my boys. You go an' make sure she don't leave with 'em. You hear me!?'

Gene holds his breath. The click of a gun's hammer being pulled back is unmistakable, as is the silence that invariably follows. He imagines Ricky's face – he saw it himself a few days ago, didn't he? The pause, the mind ticking over behind the eyes. Will he pull the trigger? What'll set him off? How-

'I mean it. I get my cash, I get my sons. You can have her.'

'…just get out of my house, Gary.'

The bang of the back door reverberates up the hallway. Gene leans against the wall for just a second. Gary-John's going for money off Reuben. He can't be walking there. But if he thinks the job's still going ahead…

He cuts through the alley down the side of the house, and sees a small figure in front. Paul lives in the other direction. He's headed for the canal.

#

Sam heads for the warehouse. For almost a week, he's been expecting this night to be nothing but a big scrap. The people are all here for it, but he's walking between them unmolested. A couple of the blokes from the vans are getting frisked against the wall, but the rest just stand around, looking confused. Uniform surround them, and some of them look well up for the fight. But no one's resisting. It's surreal.

Ray jogs up, shaking his head. 'Told you, Boss.'

'You sure?'

'Positive. At first look anyway. There's nothing on that boat 'cept scrap metal, and car parts. They're going through the rest, but…' He shrugs. Sam looks at him dubiously, then walks to the first boxes brought off.

'Have you checked for anything else? Even if there's nothing in the cargo, it might be concealed somewhere else. Pull everything apart.'

'Chris is on it. But, OK.'

He jogs off again. Sam wrenches the lid of one of the crates with a crowbar, and looks for himself. 'PC…Talbot, isn't it? Give me a hand here. Push it over.'

They upend the thing. Cables, wires, bits of alternators, spark plugs, random coils and springs. Scrap metal, and car parts. He crouches, and picks a bit up. Heavy, oily, a hint of rust. Nothing illegal.

'Keep looking. All of you.' And into the radio, 'Vince? Talk to me. Where's Reuben Paul?'

'_I was just about to check in, Boss. He's headed out of the city. Looks to be going Preston way. You want me to keep going?_'

Out of their jurisdiction. And they have no reason to go after him now. Sam frowns, and stares at the ground. A moment later; 'No. Let him go.'

None of this makes sense. He'd be quite willing to chalk it up to bad information, but CID in Liverpool had been quite sure. They've put together a solid investigation. And Gene…Gene had been stalwart in his certainty. Blinded to any other possibility, in fact. But that's not anything new.

He stands up slowly, and lets the metal drop. Before he can get to the next question, the one that's been bothering him for hours, a shout goes up from the river. 'Hey up! Guv's here.'

#

Gary-John didn't go straight to the canal. He'd hared across the wasteground, and headed up to the service road. Gene knows the quays pretty well, and it seems obvious that he's going the route that he had been meaning to take on the stake-out, the one Sam ended up with. Along the road, then drop down beside, or behind, the warehouse. The only trouble is, the place is swarming with coppers, and he's too far behind to stop him before he gets there. If he runs into that lot waving a gun, there's not a damn thing he can do to stop it. At least he'll be able to justify where he's been. He got held up stopping an assault, and then battered. The rest of it'll be out of his hands, at least for the night.

Lancett stops next to Sam's car. Gene gains some ground when he stops to look inside it. For a second, it looks like he might nick it – but then he's off again. Not down the embankment, not into the waiting arms of Her Majesty's finest. Straight on, towards the other warehouses, the warren of used and disused buildings that make up this part of the city; the maze of stores and alleys that offer a thousand places to hide. Gene swears, and forces himself on. He can't let him go with his gun, not if he's going back to get his kids. If he can get the thing off him, and tell him to disappear tonight, on his own, then problem solved.

'Where?'

Chris points up at the service road. 'Running along there. Definitely him, Boss. I'd know that coat anywhere.'

Sam stares at him for a second. Then he grabs his radio, 'Gene, you there? Gene, come in.' Nothing. 'Why was he running, Chris?'

Chris shrugs. Some of the PCs are watching now though, and one points. 'He's right. Up there, see? He's chasing someone. They're coming down the slope.'

Then there's only one thing to do. 'Ray, Chris, Annie – take six uniformed officers each, and spread out. If the Guv's after someone, we can help pen him in. Chris, you're quickest. Get to the other side of the buildings. Ray, go to the centre and line the canal. Annie, this side. I'll take the back. Hold a perimeter. I'll hold the road. Go, _now._'

No one argues. Within a minute, most of uniform have disappeared. He makes sure there's a few still checking the boat, then moves out, his heart thudding in his chest. It can't be Paul Gene's chasing. It could be anyone. But if someone needs catching, he's damn sure going to make sure they're caught.

#

Gene looks up as he slides down the embankment on his side. He can only see half the squad, but they're moving in an organised way, splitting and fanning out. And headed this way, some of them. They'd better not be doing what he thinks they're doing. In other circumstances, he'd be proud as punch. Surround a bastard, hunt him down like terriers after a rat. They'd ferret anyone out. Gary-John Lancett could be key to understanding what went wrong with the investigation into Reuben Paul. Catch him, interrogate him. Charge him for what he did to his missus. Perfect.

Except, not. Gene staggers to a halt against the side of a building, and tries to force air into his lungs. And listen. Wind drives rain into his face, but he barely feels it. There are shouts in the near-distance, maybe two hundred yards away. Sorting out positions, most likely. He can see Lancett's silhouette up ahead – the git obviously never did National Service, leaving his shape outlined like that. Either he's tired as well, or he's figured that he's being surrounded. And that's dangerous, because he's already jumpy as hell, and now he'll be thinking that his boss has been pinched. It'd make anyone trigger-happy.

'Lancett.' He hisses it, as quietly as he can. A gust of wind carries it away. 'Oi. Lancett.'

He's too far away. Gene steps into the shadow of the building, and moves along it. Keeping quiet isn't the main priority; he can barely hear his own footsteps in the din. The wind is louder in the alleyways between warehouses, and rattles off the corrugated iron and steel-plate surrounds of containers. Doors shake and chains rustle, and all he can think is that he doesn't want to sneak up on this man, and drop a hand on his shoulder. He'd be liable to turn and shoot without thinking.

Gary-John melts around the corner of his resting post, and moves on. Gene hurries after him, and glances around the corner. A copper's voice sounds out, frighteningly close. 'Got someone over here!'

And another voice, further away. 'Hold the perimeter.'

Sam. Gene's stomach turns over, and he swallows hard. Lancett has frozen on hearing voices, then speeds up. He turns another corner, and Gene's about to follow, when he pulls back. There's a uniform pacing along the end of the row, obviously part of the team holding the road-edge of the circle. It makes something occur to him, beyond the desire not to be seen yet – he pulls his radio from his pocket, and slides off the battery cover. He chucks it away, and loosens one of the batteries. Now it can seem like the thing just won't stay in, and explain his random unavailability.

The uniform has paced on. Gene slips along the wall, and there's a sudden bang. He freezes, blood ice-cold, and his first thought is _gun_, followed by, _what if the bastard shoots Sam?_ It hadn't occurred to him before now, the potential danger to the others. His heart thumps again, fit to burst, and he fights the urge to run. The sound comes again…and it's not a gun. It's a door flapping in the wind. Relief sweeps him, and he rounds the corner. And in front of him, sitting with his back against the wall, is Gary-John Lancett.

#

Sam paces nervously, up and down, 'round in circles. He can't hear anything from within. He can't see anything. There's only rain, and things banging in the dark. Random patches of light, the odd shout. He can't let them move in, because anyone could slip through in the confusion. It'd be chaos. But they can't stand here all night, either.

Someone shouts up to him that a man's been spotted. He gives his order, and can barely speak, his throat is so tight. They need daylight. They need to know why they're bloody doing this. This could be nothing, or something; they need Gene to _talk_ to them, and tell them what's going on. Why would he run straight past his own men without saying a word, and disappear into this labyrinth? It doesn't matter which way he turns it, something is seriously off.

A shout goes up. 'He's got a gun!'

'Hold the line! Call Armed Response!'

Gene's in there with a gunman. He doesn't think any more. He just runs.

#

The body isn't moving. There's no blood. There's no gun in his hand, either. From ten feet away, he can't tell if he's breathing. And there's no reason why he shouldn't be. Gene looks from side to side, and can see no one. These buildings are smaller, more like outhouses than warehouses. Storage rooms built of brick, left over from before the war. Offices of struggling businesses that can't afford better, running their barges up and down, amid buildings going to ruin. The alley between these two is narrow, barely enough to fit a car. There's a swaying lamp at one end, dim light only just reaching the prostrate figure.

He walks over, and checks for a pulse. He's breathing. There's a mark on his forehead though, like something hit him. Maybe he was caught with something blown by the wind. Either way, it works out all right. He can wait for him to wake up, and tell him to scarper or get nicked. Or just leave him, go and call the troops off and say he lost him. If he meant it when he said he was doing a runner, then he'll take the issue with him.

For the first time in a while, Gene feels a subtle tendril of hope burst to life. Before, he was telling himself it could work. Now, in the midst of it, it really could. Lancett must have dropped the gun when he got hit. He backs away, attempting to retrace his steps from the corner to where he sits, looking down around his feet to see if it turns up.

It turns up. It appears by his side, in a hand, a split second before he backs into someone standing behind him. In that instant, his mind blanks. He tries to turn, but it's too late.

An arm slides up his side, straight and strong as iron. The bicep presses under his armpit, as though it were _his_ arm. He doesn't have time to think before a body is warm against his back, and Gene knows what's happening an instant before it does.

The gun fires. Blood explodes from Gary-John's chest, and then again, and then a third blows his forehead inwards. The man's face disappears like someone chucked red paint over it. It's over before he can blink twice.

Gene's a copper. He's seen any number of a people get shot. The blood doesn't register, nor the flecks of bone and flesh peppering the front of his coat. What he thinks is - distance from shooter to shot. Position of the gunman. Height, surmised from bullet trajectory. And then…and then, that none of this matters, if someone has means to make you say what they want.

Oh. Shit.

The person behind has stepped away. Gene watches Gary-John's body slump forward. A gust of wind blows, and the thing starts to crumple. It appears to do it in slow motion; it appears, to Gene, to take his whole life with it as it falls. The corpse droops in the middle like socks without elastic, like a half-baked sponge. Gene doesn't move until its face is pressed into the ground, the whole thing bent at an unnatural angle, shoulders jutting, head lolling. A derailed train of a body, a disaster of unimaginable magnitude.

He turns around slowly. Ricky doesn't look happy, or sad, or smug. He just looks. Then he holds the gun out. 'Think this is yours.'

Gene looks at it. Rain blatters into the side of his face. His chest heaves. Ricky leaves it there between them. Eventually, Gene makes his throat work but his voice doesn't sound like his. 'It's already got my fingerprints on it.'

'I know. And you're the only person to have held it tonight.' He proffers it, like a father encouraging his child to eat one last spoonful. 'Go on.'

Gene takes his gun. The rain makes it alien, water on metal robbing it of all feeling. It's just a thing; warm from being fired, but just a thing. 'This is…' He doesn't know where to start. Because he knows where it ends. His mind leapt there as the first bullet hit home. Anything he says, _anything_, will come back to only one conclusion.

'I didn't mean for it. I didn't. But I'm not sorry.'

'You can't make me do this.'

'No. I can't.' And that's what's sick, isn't it? 'But you're going to anyway, I reckon.'

Gene feels saliva flood his mouth, released by adrenaline rather than by the need to throw up. Though that might follow. He swallows it down, licks his lips. 'You've killed your brother.' It's the only thing that seems real, at this point.

'I know. I didn't plan that. But he had your gun. _Your_ gun. So…?' Ricky shrugs a shoulder, in that way he has. Calm, it seems, but his voice gives him away. It's higher than normal, tight, and his eyes flick left and right. The 'so…?' hangs there, a question that seems to ask, like a child; _can I go?_ Gene feels his stomach turn over, and clench, and release, and clench.

'For a bird?'

'It's not like you think.' The man gets an expression, for the first time. Sadness. 'We've never…I always wanted- y'know. Since we were kids.'

'You let him beat her up. You wanted to keep him around. You wanted him out of sodding prison, what the _fuck_ are you _talking about_, you little…' His voice is rising, panicked, and he can't help it. Ricky steps back, out of punching reach, and holds his hands up.

'He's their dad. She loves him. There's a difference between prison and dead, Mr Hunt.'

Gene brings a hand to his mouth, and doesn't care that it's shaking. In his other hand, the gun. He raises it, without thinking. Ricky just shakes his head, slow and sure. 'If you do that, it'll be real.'

He's right. It's checkmate, no matter which way he turns it. His arm drops again, the weapon a dead weight in his palm. He feels the last of his energy drain, pooling out of his muscles like the blood around Gary-John's corpse.

'You should've just left it all alone, like I said. I did _tell_ you to leave him alone.'

'I did,' he says, only it's more like a whisper.

Ricky shrugs again. It's almost, _almost,_ apologetic. 'Well.' He backs away, then stops. His eyes look Gene up and down, one last time. 'It's amazing you know. What you'll do for someone, if you have to.'

He steps back into the shadows. Gene lifts his head, but he can't see him. And then, above the wind, Sam's voice, calling his name. He sounds desperate, scared. Gene closes his eyes. 'I know.'

He drops the gun, and places his hands on the wall. Ricky's gone, and he can't breathe. Sam's voice is getting louder, and it's like the end of the world is closing in with each passing second. As soon as Sam sees, it'll be real. Really real.

He punches the wall, because it's better than screaming. He punches it again, and again, until there's more blood than skin, and clean white shows through flesh. But nothing's different when he stops. He was already stripped to the bone before it. He turns, and lets out a choke that might be a sob, if he were a different man. His back slides down the wall, until he's crouching, his head bowed.

It's after midnight, and raining. Raining so hard the water runs in rivulets down his face, along the crease between nose and cheek, down over his mouth and off his chin. It drips off the hair cut too short last Thursday. He can feel it seeping through to the roots, making curls at his nape before saturating his collar and spreading outwards, downwards, like a pool of blood between his shoulder blades.

'Gene.'

Tyler's voice is a long way away, and probably would be even if the wind weren't whistling along the alley, driving water sideways before it. He ignores it, and Sam, and curls into himself, shoulders hunched as he rests on his heels, the wall cold against his back.

'Gene, are you OK?'

#

Sam's radio burst into life as the gunshots rang out. Ray, Chris, Annie. _What's going on? Is it the Guv?_ He'd yelled something into it, hold the line, or move in, or both. They're coming anyway, whatever he said. He can hear Ray yelling, and uniform calling out to each other to be aware for someone trying to run. But all he thinks is, _Gene_.

He skids around a corner, and stops dead. He can see him, up ahead. His fear changes, from terror of losing him, to terror at what he might have done. Because he's punching the wall, and there's a body on the ground.

He walks slowly, swallowing, trying his best to keep calm. Ray and Chris, and some officers, come up behind. They stop when they take in the scene, and no one follows him. He feels like he's gliding, like the ground doesn't exist under his feet. Ahead of him, Gene is sliding down the wall. Everything in him says defeat.

The body is Gary-John Lancett. Somehow, he's not surprised. 'Gene.'

He doesn't seem to have heard. Sam stops, his head spinning. Gary-John Lancett, who beat his wife, and his kids. Who Gene seemed to not care about punishing. Who Gene seemed to avoid going near at all costs. And Sam's stomach sinks with the weight of realisation, the bare fact that he should have seen. Gene doesn't practise zero-tolerance with domestic abusers. He avoids them. Because, Sam's always assumed, they remind him of his own past.

'Gene, are you OK?'

There's blood dripping off his hand. It splatters on to the gun on the ground. Even from ten feet away, it's obvious the damage is…bad.

'Gene?'

He wants to scream, and run to him, and grab him and find out _why_. And make sure he's all right. To fix him. But he can't move. There are people watching.

'I'm fine.' Sam nods, dumbly, and puts his hands behind his back so Gene won't see them shaking. He watches him pull himself upright. 'You'd better do it.'

The admission is there in Gene's stance, even without the words. But he can't bring himself to say what has to be said. 'It can wait. You need to get to hospital.'

'After. Go on. No need for you to pick up a reprimand.'

He nods again, because it's easier than speaking. His hands twist together behind his back, until they hurt, until the pain calms his sickness. Then he takes a deep breath, and brings them forward.

'Gene Stephen Hunt, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Gary-John Lancett. You have the right to remain silent…'

The familiarity of the caution doesn't help. He watches Gene's face close over, and screams inside. If there were no one else here, there would be so much more to say. But they're coppers. The only words they know are rotes and procedures, spouted at the appropriate moments. Somewhere along the line, they entered undiscovered country. And found themselves here, wet and trapped, nowhere left to go.


	8. Chapter VIII Epilogue

This is it, unless I write a follow-up in a few weeks' time. Thanks for reading. _  
_

###

_VIII_

_Epilogue_

Sam stands outside the door of Lost and Found, file in his hand, pencils in his pocket. He's aware of the people in the corridor. Their muted voices, their cigarette smoke curling in the air. Behind him, CID is full, and silent. No one's pretending to do any work. But he can't open the door. For the longest time, he just stands in front of it and stares at the wood. It takes Annie to move him. She walks up, and puts her hand on his arm; says quietly, 'you don't have to. No one's expecting you -'

His jaw clenches. He does have to. Her hand falls away as he pushes the door open. All of them melt to nothing by the time it closes.

Gene sits alone. Just like last time, and in almost the same position. The only difference is that his bandaged hand rests on the table. The other is across his body, and holding a fag. Sam does not look him in the eye. Barely looks at him at all. He just slides into his seat, and opens the file.

'No tape recorder?'

'It's not an interview. I won't be running the investigation.'

He runs a finger along the top edge of the folder, hesitates, and closes it again. It doesn't have anything in it he needs. Gene watches him, and smokes, grey and bowed with defeat. Sam thinks his heart might shatter, but doesn't let it show. Falling apart is not going to help anyone.

'Tell me what happened.'

Gene's eyeing the file. 'Tell you? Or tell everyone? Is this on the record, or not?'

'Does the answer to that change your story?'

A shrug, and the man falls silent. Sam focuses on the pure white wrappings around his hand, the splint holding his fingers together. There was so much blood last night, and you wouldn't know it now. But he can't think about it. He can't think about the walk through the quay, with everyone silent. The hospital. The fraught conversation with Rathbone. The handcuffs that were insisted upon. The sleepless night in CID, the private tears, the public outcry from the others. None of that does any good, in this room.

He clears his throat, and searches for somewhere to start. 'We know you lied about going to the hospital. You turned up at Reuben Paul's, and relieved Geoff for an hour. Then you went to the Lancett's. Laura says you stepped in when Gary-John assaulted her, and told her to leave. You assaulted _him_. He put you down, and went off. We saw you chasing him at the quay. And then, with his body. No one else was seen. No other eye witnesses to events, so far.' There's nothing from Gene. No expression on his face, and barely a movement. 'Anything we've missed?'

'He took my gun. When he put me down.'

Sam blinks. A second later, relief. 'So it was self-defence?'

'No.'

The hope fades. But he can come back to that. He fiddles with the edge of the file again, then forces himself to stop. 'What they don't know, but I do-' Gene's eyes flick upwards, for the first time, '-is that you were at Ricky Lancett's four days ago. I saw you pin him against his kitchen wall, because he hit one of the boys. Is that what this is about?'

The barest flicker of surprise shows on Gene's face at this news. But at the question, he seems to go still. And then, the tiniest hint of a resigned smile. 'About Ricky?'

'About the abuse of the kids, and their mother.'

Gene taps ash off his cigarette. 'You think I saw it, and snapped.'

'It's all I've got so far.'

There's a long pause. Then, a fractional shrug. 'Yeah. OK then.'

'Because I know – you always avoid wife beaters, Gene. You don't go after them. If my insistence on prosecuting Gary-John caused this, then you might be able to plead temporary insanity. And then he took your gun, so you ran after him, and one thing led to another…'

He's about to break, and start babbling. So he stops, and clenches a fist under the table, digs his nails into his palm. It helps. Gene's gone still again. Then he grinds his fag out, and sits back.

'You think I did it, then.'

Sam stares at him hopelessly. Then shrugs with his hand; palm up, and back again. 'I don't want to. But you've got to help me, Gene. I can't do anything unless you start talking.'

Gene just looks down at the table. His eyes close, and it's all Sam can do to stop himself walking around there, and wrapping his arms around his head until that expression of utter defeat goes away.

'You think I'm a murderer.'

'I don't want to. I don't _want_ to. But I can't see another explanation here. All you've got to do is tell me you didn't do it, and I'll believe you.'

Gene doesn't move. Sam feels an ache at the back of his eyes, and has to look away. The thought of losing this man tears him in two, but he's giving no indication of wanting to be saved. It looks like, if anything, this conversation is making it worse.

'You released Gary-John from custody behind my back. I expressly stated that I wanted to pick him up again – for a _month_, I've been saying that – and you wouldn't let me.' The frustration starts to rise; the confusion and irritation he's been trying to keep away. 'When he assaulted her again on Friday, I was halfway out the door to go get him, and you stopped me. So that last night could go ahead. Last night, which didn't happen. There was nothing on that barge, has anyone told you? Reuben Paul didn't even show up. Just you, and Lancett, and do you know what it looks like, Gene? It looks like you kept him out of jail so you could _bloody shoot him._'

He jabs his finger so hard into the table, it hurts. Gene looks away. There's none of his usual laconic arrogance, not like last time he was sitting on that side of the table. No bravado, no 'how are we going to get out of this, then?' No instructions as to what to do. Nothing at all, and Sam wants to slap his face, and tell him to snap out of it.

'Do you want to go to jail, is that it? Because at this rate, that's what's happening.'

A reaction, at last. Gene snorts, and turns his head. 'Do I…_want_ to go to jail?'

He shifts upright in his seat, a sudden movement that seems wrong, after his stillness. 'Do you know what's going to happen to me in Strangeways, Sam? When they put me away, surrounded by dozens, literally _dozens_, of bastards that I've put in there over the years? I'll be lucky to make it through the first night. If I do, it'll be weeks of beatings. Torture. The odd gang rape. Probably rip all me teeth out, because they don't know like you do, that I give bloody good blowjobs with my teeth where they are. There'll be a pool on who shivs me first, and you know what? The guards'll let it happen. That's what they do, until they're forced to step in.'

Sam's pinned, his throat closing over. Not by the words, though they're all true. But because Gene picks up his fags, and his hand is shaking. He hasn't seen his hand shake since Harry Woolf. Not even when Leslie Johns stood over him, and pointed a shotgun at his head. And when he starts again, there's a crack in his voice. 'That'll be the first time I'm in the sick bay and the docs say I might not make it. After that, if I do – it'll be confinement, for my own safety. The rest of my life, in a special wing with the kiddie fiddlers and nonces. The rest of my _life_, Sam. Do I want to go to jail? _Don't_ ask stupid questions.'

He's terrified. Sam lets out a shaky breath. He's never once seen him like this. The silence is not reticence. It's fear.

He reaches out, and closes his hand around his good wrist. 'Then _help_ me.'

'I can't.'

'Did you kill him? Did you, Gene?'

He looks at him until their eyes meet. Gene's, normally sparking with life and fire, shine too brightly. Sam can't breathe.

'No.'

He shuts his eyes. The relief is so strong, he can't think. _No_. He's never been so glad to hear a word he hates.

'OK. Good. That's good. Then we'll find a way. Just like last time. You won't get bail, but I can-'

'Sam. Stop.'

The quiet finality shuts him up. It says everything. Relief turns to horror in the instant it takes to meet his eyes again.

'Gene…'

'No.' Gene's shaking his head. 'No.'

'I don't-'

'I don't expect you to. But when they come in, whoever it is, they'll have my confession.'

The room is silent, not even a ticking clock to break it. The rest of the world doesn't exist. Sam can't move. 'What?'

'You heard.'

Gene fades again, sinking back into himself. He occupies the same space, holds the same position; slumped back in his chair, head slightly bowed. It seems like that's it.

Sam smacks the table, hard, with the flat of his hand. The sound rings out like a gunshot. 'No. _No_. Not good enough. This is me you're talking to. You don't get away with saying that, and just expecting me to take it. Why the bloody hell would you confess to something you haven't done?'

Gene draws a hand over his eyes, and leaves it there.

'…Gene? _Tell_ me.'

The hand, the last defence, falls.

'Because Ricky Lancett's got pictures of me fucking you against a wall.'

The bottom drops out of the world. Sam only becomes aware of the way his mouth hangs open when some indeterminate time has passed, and Gene still hasn't moved, and still won't look at him.

His first thought is _so?_, but it's replaced immediately with the knowledge that this makes sense. Finally. Everything drops into place. There'd be satisfaction in finally understanding, if he didn't want to throw up.

'Blackmail.'

A nod. Sam licks dry lips, and swallows, and then tries to get everything out in a rush, because maybe Gene will give in if he says everything quick enough.

'All right. So. Ricky did it. Ricky did it? OK, so we can pick him up. And it doesn't matter what he says, because no one'll believe him anyway. And it doesn't matter _anyway_ because it's no one else's business, and sod it Gene, why didn't you just bloody say so from the off? Why would you let it get this far? How long has it been – Christ, you said it, that night. You said, _give them to me_, and I knew it didn't make sense, and…you stupid bastard, why didn't you fucking _say something_-'

Gene just lets him ramble. Sam knows he should stop, but he can't. If he does, he'll be forced to think of what Annie said last night. _It'll be the end of him, if it gets out_. He'll be forced to think about what he knows about prejudice in the seventies, and what Gene thinks about it, and all those precautions they took to keep it secret. He'll have to face just how much they'd lose, and he can't do that, he can't think about it. So he talks, because Gene might have had weeks to think about this, but he hasn't, and now they're out of time.

'…it doesn't matter. People like us need to stand up. And they'll all follow you no matter what. It doesn't make a difference. And if it does, we can transfer. Plenty of police forces, and-

'Sam.'

He talks louder. '-it'll all be different in a few years anyway. You are not going to prison, Gene. You didn't do anything wrong. You didn't murder-'

'_Sam_.'

He shakes his head. 'No. _No_. You are not going to prison. You're not. You'll never come out. All because of pride? _No_, Gene. It's madness. You're not a murderer, and I'll not-'

A hand closes over his wrist, and squeezes. Squeezes until his voice breaks, and his chest is heaving with the shock and desperation. He looks up to meet Gene's eyes and shakes his head, quick, too quick.

'You're not going down for murder. I don't care what they say about us.'

Gene smiles, sadly. 'But I do.'

'No-'

'Sam. I _do_.'

One more squeeze, and the hand slips away. Sam plants his hand over his mouth, and tries to breathe. Gene nudges his lighter with his fingertip, and watches it spin in a circle.

'I'd rather go down as a murderer than a queer.'

'They'll kill you.'

'They'll think I killed a bloke who beat up his family. Some'll want to give me a medal.'

'The same people who'd turn their backs if they found out you fancy men sometimes?'

'Didn't say it was fair.'

He has to laugh at that. It's a rough, raw sound, and chokes off at the end. 'I can't let you.'

'You can. You can, and you bloody will.' For the first time, a spark of life in Gene's eyes. 'Don't you bloody _dare_ take this away from me. I'll never forgive you if you do.'

He means it. And Sam can see why. Loathes it, wants to puke because of it. But no, he can't take it away from him. He does that, they'd even lose each other. 'Tell me you didn't do this because of me.'

'I'm flattered you'd think I'm that selfless.'

'Gene.'

'Not because of you. Though I did…take it into consideration.'

Sam gets up, and paces around in a circle. And then whirls, and crosses the distance, and kisses Gene so desperately that he'd crawl under his skin, if he could. When he breaks off, his voice is a ragged whisper, and Gene's breath is fast and warm against his lips. 'We could go abroad. It wouldn't matter there. Please don't do this. I'll beg if I have to. _Please_ Gene, don't do this. You think you can't live with people knowing, but it wouldn't be that bad. They'd learn. We'd-'

Gene's hand is tight on his arm. It takes a moment to realise that he's pushing him away. Gently, but firmly, untangling himself. And he's shaking his head. 'Sam, stop. This is the way it is. I wouldn't have said anything at all, but I'm not relishing my prospects much, here.'

He's still pushing. Sam lets his hands drop to the side, and takes a step back. Gene nods at him, a silent thank you. 'This way, there _is_ a chance. The photos are somewhere in the pit where Ricky works. Or they were. Get them back off him, and I'll sing before the convicts finish sharpening their toothbrushes. Maybe even before they get my pants down, if I'm lucky, and you're quick.'

Photographs hidden in a pit. Sam does not point out how hopeless that is. Gene already knows, or he would have gone and found them himself. He just nods, and makes it convincing. 'I'll find them.'

'Right.' Gene attempts a smile. Sam tries to return it. But all he can think is how stupid this is. How wrong, on every level. He can stop it by just saying a few simple words. At what price, though? Gene would never forgive him. And then they'd be outcasts for nothing, and not even have each other.

'Right. It's a plan.'

'Good.'

He sits down again. They face each other across the table, with no words left to speak. Any minute now, the D.C.I. from B Division, or maybe Rathbone himself, will find their way in. He'll stand in the corner, and watch them take a statement, and then charge D.C.I. Gene Hunt with first degree murder. He might have kissed him for the last time already; might never get to touch his skin again, or see him smile.

But he doesn't cross the space. Gene's untouchable. Someone might come in and catch them, so he can't move. They just watch each other in silence, a respectable distance apart, hands where they can be seen at all times. It's all they're allowed. Sam tells himself that this is what it is, and that Gene's tough, and clever. If anyone can find a way to survive in prison - for the brief time he'll be there - it'll be him. Never mind that it'll be him against the entire prison population. Never mind that the guards will only do the bare minimum to protect him. And Gene wouldn't kill himself. Would he? No, not if he's already taken the disgrace. It'd be pointless after that. And not when he's got him out here, doing his best to get him freed. It'll be all right. He'll move heaven and earth. Photographs in a coal mine. Only miles and miles of pitch-black, underground tunnels. It'll be all right.

He opens his mouth to break the hopeless silence, but the door beats him to it. He stiffens in his chair, and offers half a smile to Gene, who blinks at him, and gives a nod, barely there. He looks ready. Steeled for it. Like he's not going to fall apart, which is more than Sam can say for himself.

'D.I. Tyler, you know D.C.I. Page from B Division, I believe?' Rathbone doesn't do more than glance at Gene. Sam tries to ignore the flash of anger, and stands. Is this how it is, already? He hasn't been charged yet, let alone convicted.

Page offers his hand, just as Rathbone adds, 'you needn't stay. Probably best if you don't. Unpleasant business, and there's to be an inquiry. You and your team can go home. Report back at nine tomorrow morning.'

He takes the proffered hand, aware, in the corner of his eye, that Gene's head has raised. _Your team_. Not his, any more. And as he shakes, it hits him. This is it. By the time he comes back to the station, Gene will have been charged. He won't be going home, ever. They'll never give him bail. He'll be held in prison while the case is built – won't take long, with his confession – and then that's it. Conviction, sentencing, a life over. What are the odds he'll be able to destroy the photographs? What are the odds of _finding_ them? Ricky won't hand them over at any price, now. This is really it.

Page is looking at him strangely. He realises he hasn't let go of his hand. He can't. He grips harder. Rathbone tilts his head at him, and in his peripheral vision, Gene has frozen.

'D.I. Tyl-'

'It wasn't him.'

'…well, I'm sure-'

'Sam…'

He grips the hand until both their knuckles are white, his eyes burn and his jaw aches. 'He's not a killer.'

Rathbone smiles benevolently, like some dissension from Gene's followers was only to be expected, and that's why the case has to be farmed out. A kind smile, almost fatherly. Sam hovers, unable to let go. This is really it.

'D.I. Tyler, your loyalty is com-'

'He's my lover.'

The words hang in the air. Once said, there's no going back, even though Gene's rising from his seat and the others have pulled up, open-mouthed.

'There are photos of -' Gene lunges at him at him over the table, roaring, knocking chairs over and screeching the table across the floor. But Sam can't hear what he yells. He just holds on to this stranger, and steps sideways out of the way. '-us having sex. Ricky Lancett killed his brother. He knows Gene'll take the fall rather than tell the truth. So I'm doing it.'

He lets go. Page's hand remains in the air. Rathbone's face is a rictus of shock. Sam faces Gene with tears in his eyes, his back ramrod-straight, his gaze steady. 'I am _not_ letting you go to prison. You didn't kill him. You're not ending yourself because of that bastard.'

No one moves. And then Gene's face twists into fury. His chest heaves, just once. 'No. _You've_ just done it.'

Not fury. Hurt. And hatred. Sam swallows, and shakes his head, and whispers, 'I'm sorry.'

It'll never be enough. But at least this way, Gene can live. He holds the stare until he can't bear it anymore, and then turns to Rathbone. 'I'm going to get Ricky Lancett now. You can sit in for his confession, if you want.'

He turns on his heel and heads for the door, eyes faced forward. He hears Gene sit heavily, and doesn't mean to look back. But then there's a sound; not a sob, not a choke. Something more pained, something animal. Sam's heart cracks, and he looks behind. Gene, with a hand over his eyes. His head down, his body a sketch of defeat. Rathbone and Page stand looking at him, shocked to the core.

But then Rathbone's face shifts. Sam pauses, his hand on the doorknob, and watches the mouth curl, and the nose wrinkle in distaste. His heart stops beating as the man glances over at Page with an eyebrow raised, like a playground bully handed a big stick, and immunity. _We've been playing with a queer. And he thought he was better than us. What're we gonna do about that?_

Gene doesn't move a muscle, apart from the fast, shallow, pull of his chest. Sam looks him over once more, then turns away. He's kissed him for the last time already. Might never touch his skin again, or see him smile.

But at least he'll be free. He walks down corridors lined with coppers, all of whom love Gene, for now. Maybe not free. But not falsely condemned. Isn't that better?

He has to believe it. Yes. _Yes._ He tells himself; _yes_.


End file.
